


Mind Over Matter

by Redcoat_Officer



Series: Mind over Matter [1]
Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Action/Adventure, Administratum, Chaos Space Marines - Freeform, Female Protagonist, Gen, Inquisition, Mutants, Mystery, Nobility, Planetary Defence Force, Sisters of Battle, Tempestus Scions, Word Bearers - Freeform, psyker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcoat_Officer/pseuds/Redcoat_Officer
Summary: The Inquisition is charged with hunting down the Alien, the Mutant and the Heretic. Inquisitors are the Imperium's finest, and their mandate grants them near unlimited authority. But no Inquisitor stands alone. Each is accompanied by acolytes, diverse followers united only in their loyalty to their master. For some Inquisitors, their acolytes are a small team of select companions whilst others maintain thousands of followers with private armies and warships.Primaris Psyker Amelia Lafayette is one such acolyte, bound in service to the Inquisition. Inexperienced, and browbeaten by her training, she must learn to adapt to her situation, or be forever damned.
Series: Mind over Matter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589614
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. The Silent Observer

The ceiling was a sheet of unadorned metal, with support struts stretched across its width and a harsh halogen light hanging from them by frayed tangles of wire. The bulb flickered at irregular intervals, plunging the room into darkness just long enough to make the red light from the camera mounted in the corner of the room impossible to ignore. Amelia was indifferent to the camera’s presence, having long given up any hope of privacy, and had instead been studying the ceiling for some time now, not out of any particular interest in the industrial-brutalist school of architecture but because she was desperately trying to keep her mind active.

An inactive mind can lead to all manner of unpleasant effects such as sleep, and the dreams that come with it. The inactive mind will inevitably become the wandering mind, a dangerous beast for a psyker of the Telepathic discipline. Amelia, realising she had learned all she possibly could from the ceiling, sat up, desperately seeking something to keep her mind away from the sharp touch of the psi-inert materials that lay just behind the walls of her cell. Her eyes settled on the small shrine tucked into the little space that lay between her bed and locker, though she had already spent two hours in prayer before even the catechisms of faith had become monotonous. Eventually the decision was made for her as her agitated stomach wailed in protest. It was time to leave.

This was by no means a demanding task; though thicker than usual her door was not locked and she would not be stopped or questioned. However, it did mean she would have to interact with others and withstand their accusatory stares, or their deliberate indifference to her presence. Amelia paused before a screen that usually displayed any incoming orders but also served as a passable mirror when not in use. She saw a young woman with sunken eyes, unnaturally pale skin and ginger hair tied behind her head in a tight braid. The sides of her head were chemically shaved, to make room for the crude ports and clasps that also circled her collar and the back of her neck, the emotional dampeners and failsafes they concealed ensuring that even without her psychic hood she would never be able to pretend she was anything more than an aberrant mutant, tolerated by humanity for as long as she was useful. Further proof of her status could be seen in her black leather stormcoat, with the stylised red I of the Astra Telepathica on her right shoulder and the personal sigil of Inquisitor Heydrax above her left breast. Satisfied that she was at least somewhat presentable, Amelia collected her datapad, hooking it on her belt, and stepped across the threshold.

Her room backed onto the mezzanine level of a long hall with an arched ceiling. Identical rooms lay to her left and right, with the same repeated on the opposite end of the hall. The rightmost wall was dominated by a great stained-glass window, displaying the iconography of the Inquisition amongst a pattern of Gothic shapes. The whole edifice glowed with a red light, casting shadows onto the people bustling across the floor below. The ground floor was dominated by rows of tables set before a galley behind which a grey robed menial stood beside trays of food. Dozens of figures wandered the hall, most sitting before bowls of stew or waiting in line to be served whilst others stood in quiet huddles, their low conversations permeating the hall. They were varied in appearance, with robes, fatigues, bodygloves and coveralls unified only in their dark colours and the occasional Inquisitorial sigil. Amelia descended the spiral staircase to the lower lever and was soon seated with a bowl of simple stew. Though the others avoided her, Amelia couldn’t ignore the other people in the room; even with her neural inhibitors she still caught glimpses of their thoughts and emotions. Their emotions were dominated by apprehension or excitement and their thoughts were largely speculative, it was clear that some great change in the routine was coming. 

Amelia’s datapad beeped, bringing her back to the here and now, she was to proceed to the armoury and from then to the starboard saloon. Glancing around, Amelia saw that many others had also received similar messages, and were proceeding to the armoury that divided the crew’s quarters from the rest of the ship. Once there, Amelia reported to the Tech-Adept responsible for the more esoteric equipment. Hands as cold as death placed the machinery of the psychic hood around her neck and she felt a familiar stab of pain as the adept turned the screws that secured the device to her spine. Finally, the devices thick wires were plugged into ports on the side of her head, and her horizons immediately began to expand. The hood was unsightly and cumbersome, but it helped Amelia expand and focus her psychic abilities, reducing the chances of failure. The additional weight was noticeable, but Amelia had been through this ritual hundreds of times in the Scholastica Psykana, and once the Adept had finished blessing the hood, she was able to move towards her locker without any noticeable difference. 

Amelia did not have any personal possessions, instead the locker contained the equipment issued to her by the Inquisition, as well as the gear she had carried since she was first sanctioned. Amelia was not entirely sure why she had been issued a sword, she was hardly the model of physical prowess, but she was not one to question the will of her betters, so she buckled the long blade to her belt. Next, she collected a compact stub revolver and loaded her only three bullets into it, she was not trusted to carry any more, tucking it into a concealed holster beneath her coat. The next two weapons were more in line with her skill set; a long, needle-like blade made of psychically reactive materials that Amelia could direct through the air, that Amelia hung next to the sword, and an ornate staff of ancient oak, taller than Amelia was, inlaid with precious metals and topped by a winged eye. The staff was as valuable as her hood, and served as a focus for her abilities. Amelia now looked every inch the Imperial Psyker, a truth that would always haunt her.

As she was new to the ship, Amelia would normally have needed to rely upon her datapad to navigate her way around, however there was a steady stream of Acolytes and Agents, all heading in the same direction. She travelled along the spinal corridor that ran the ship from bow to stern, ducking through both foot and tram traffic before turning off into a side corridor. The next passages were smaller, designed for personal use rather than bulk transport and eventually leading to the gates of the starboard saloon, the atrium to the personal quarters of Inquisitor Heydrax. The room itself resembled the nave of a great cathedral, with red glowing Inquisitorial sigils running the length of the walls. Below them was an intricate pattern of stone archways and metal ductwork, interspersed with crucified servitors engaged in some obscure function. The ceiling was vaulted with ribbed stone, with the starts themselves visible in between, projected onto innumerable screens. In the middle of what would otherwise be the transept an Inquisitorial I was held in the air, easily four times the height of a man and made of engraved metals it was supported by six colossal pipes that were strung loosely from the walls. 

The floor teemed with robed acolytes, most of whom bore heavy augmetics as well as a mixture of robes and armour. Before Amelia was jostled to the side by a man whose entire head, save his nose and mouth, was covered by crude augmetics, she was able to glimpse a shaven headed man in a bulky suit of power armour of glossy black plates inlaid with gilded engravings and tattered red robes. He stood atop a podium, surrounded by petitioners and acolytes vying for his attention like some ancient warrior king. Though there was a considerable din in the room, his voice cut through the noise as an expectant hush befell all those in his presence.

‘My loyal acolytes and servants of the Throne, we stand before the world of Nova Iberia, an ancient planet believed to have been one of Humanities first expansions into the Segmentum Tempestus, brought back into the fold by the forces of the 142nd Expeditionary Force during the Great Crusade. It is a world of proud martial spirit and steadfast loyalty to the Imperium, its many Hive Cities producing exceptional regiments of Guardsmen, while its abundant Chromium mines fuel Imperial industry on a dozen other worlds. It is also corrupt.’

‘One year ago, a Commissar attached to the 475th Iberian Heavy Infantry found a Chaotic pendant on the body of an Iberian Commando. The subsequent investigation revealed that the majority of the regiments elite forces had similar talismans. The Commisar passed his findings up the ranks of the Militarum Tempestus, where it first came to my attention.’

‘For one year, my covert agents have embedded themselves into Iberian society and infiltrated their highest places of power. It has become clear that the planet’s elite military forces, and the noble houses that feed into them, have been corrupted through rituals that grew out of the warrior culture common in most Special Forces. These Warrior Societies brought down half of the Astartes during the Heresy, and are now poised to bring down one of the most important worlds in the sector. My agents have uncovered all they can through subtlety and guile. Overt action is what is now required.’

‘You have all been summoned here because you have skills useful in investigation and interrogation. You will be my hands, interrogating those we know are suspect and bringing the Emperor’s light to the dark places of this world. In two hours, our vessel shall come out of hiding and we shall make planetfall fast enough that the enemy has no chance to hide their secrets.'

‘The majority of you will deploy to noble houses, military bases and known areas of cult activity. Force your way in, dispose of any resistance and detain all those you find. Whilst you secure and investigate the site, dispatch any high value individuals to the Arbites Precinct Fortress in the planetary capital of Hive Castle, which is where I will place my headquarters.’

‘The remainder will travel to the Precinct and establish an interrogation centre to process those individuals the strike teams collect. All of you will be answering to a Throne Agent on this mission, treat their orders as if they came from my lips. Your datapads have your assigned shuttle on it, there you will meet your team leaders. Remember, we face a warrior cult on a world steeped in martial pride, do not drop your guard.’

‘The Emperor Protects!’

Amelia echoed this shout, joined by all the acolytes in the chamber. As one they turned back into the ship’s corridors, the Inquisitor watching their departure, from there the crowd dispersed to the vessel’s six main hangers, each directed by their datapads linked to the ships Noosphere. Amelia was directed to a Valkyrie gunship, painted in Inquisition colours, before which stood a fire team of stormtroopers, a Chiurgeon laden with vials, an adept of the Mechanicus pushing along a bulky cart laden with equipment and a man with long black hair dressed in a stripped down suit of power armour shrouded in tattered red robes, the shape of a skull was hammered into his breastplate, made to look as if it was pushing out from underneath. His right arm ended in a bulky gauntlet mounted with syringes whilst his left carried an ornate book. Upon seeing Amelia, he scowled.

‘I assume you’re the Psyker. You’re certainly not much to look at. State your credentials girl.’

‘Yes, My Lord.’ Amelia stammered ‘I am Primaris Psyker Amelia, a Telepath with a low Delta assignment, I was rated Primaris one year ago and was held at the Scholasta Psykana until being bound to the Inquisitor one month ago.’

‘I suppose you’ll suffice.’

He walked halfway up the gunships ramp, before turning to address the group.

‘I am Interrogator Lucian Dray, just Interrogator to you. We are charged with interrogating high-profile figures as and when they are brought to us. We are looking to determine their degree of attachment to this world’s Warrior Societies, as well as the extent of corruption within the individual societies themselves. To this end your duties are as follows; Chiurgeon Aemos, you are responsible for the administration of chemicals to our subjects and ensuring they do not fall unconscious or expire. Adept Tankred, you will maintain the sensors and life support machines. The Psyker will assess the subjects mind and weather they are concealing anything. As and when required you will conduct a more invasive investigation of the subject’s mind. Lance-Corporal Geyl, you and your men are responsible for security; ensure that our subjects cannot attempt escape, monitor the Psyker for any signs of possession or corruption and take the necessary corrective measures in a worst-case scenario. I will be handling the interrogation itself.’

At this he strode into the aircrafts cabin, strapping himself in. The other acolytes followed him in, leaving Amelia in the hanger that was very quickly being emptied of personnel. Mustering her courage, she wandered up the ramp to join the. As she did, the hanger was filled with an echoing sound as the ships PA began transmitting.  
‘Attention. The ship will now be disabling stealth. All crew proceed to Action Stations, Aircrew conduct final checks, prepare for departure and stick to your assigned flight plans. I repeat, Action Stations, Action Stations. The Emperor Protects.’

The Valkyrie’s ramp gradually retracted, replacing the hanger’s clinical light with the red glow of a single bulb. Amelia’s emotions were disorderly, the neural inhibitors replacing her fear with a creeping sense of dread. She was lost, far from home, and descending to the surface of a world she had never even heard of to invade the minds of heretics in service to dread powers. She was surrounded by people who viewed as a tool, the same as the chemicals carried by the Interrogator, and would dispose of her the moment she posed the slightest threat. Amelia clutched her copy of the teachings of Sebastian Thor, kept within the interior pockets of her coat, and prayed.

Castle Station was the primary port of entry onto the world of Nova Iberia It was an ancient station with rudimentary weaponry, having watched over the world since it was brought into Compliance during the Great Crusade. Many of the Imperium’s most ancient facilities were also its most advanced, containing weaponry impossible to manufacture in the 40th Millennium and Castle Station could once have been considered one of them. Millenia of relative security had seen the station decay, its once mighty targeting spirits going senile with age and its advanced plasma weaponry sold to worlds with far greater need. It served now as the headquarters of Iberian Customs and Excise, protecting the system from the mundane threats of smugglers and opportunistic raiders while providing air traffic control for the annual collection of the Imperial Tithe. It was certainly no longer able to fight the eight-kilometre-long warship that, according to the sensors, had appeared in the system a mere thousand kilometres from the station with no warp signature and a distinctly menacing aura. Petty Officer Second Class Maurice Stadtholder had, until now, been convinced of the station’s invincibility and, finding his position suddenly more precarious, took a few moments before shouting to his superior.

‘Sir! Unidentified warship one thousand kilometres off the station and closing fast, mass displacement suggests it’s a Battlecruiser!’

His superior, an unimaginative Lieutenant Commander who dreamed of getting a cushy job liaising with the Planetary Government so he could spend more time with his family, dropped his mug of recaff in panic before running over to the radar. Upon confirming that what he saw was not some devious plot on the part of the non-commissioned ranks he hesitantly sat back down and thumbed a rune on his terminal.

‘Ah… All crew aboard Castle Station, beat to quarters! Captain Ranald, my compliments and I request your presence in the Operations Room at your earliest convenience.’  
Confident that he had done his duty, Lieutenant Commander Barclay sunk further into his chair, offering a desperate prayer to the Emperor that by some miracle his message did not wake the Rear-Admiral in charge of all orbital customs. It was only once the expectant panic on the faces of his staff had reminded him of his duty that he manipulated his terminal again, launching a wide beam transmission to the unknown vessel.

‘Un… Unidentified vessel, this is Iberian Customs and Excise, reduce speed and transmit your identity, flight plan and docking authorisation or…’

He fell silent, his survival instinct warring against his courage. In the end, fear of his superiors won out.

‘Or we will open fire.’

This declaration was followed by the entry of Captain Ranald into the room followed, to Barclay’s horror, by Rear-Admiral Said, a cantankerous old soul kept alive only by his sheer professionalism. Barclay’s hurried explanation of events led to a frenzied competition between Captain and Admiral over whose voice was the loudest, with the unfortunate Lieutenant Commander the target of their wroth. His desperate attempts to shift blame onto Petty Officer Stadtholder were met by a painful reminder of the meaning of the term ‘Officer of the Watch’, specifically how it relates to ‘noticing a warship before it flies up your arse’, and the Rear-Admiral’s insistence that his Voidsmen were ‘the finest men to ever put on a uniform, perhaps some time amongst them will broaden your perspectives.’. Stadtholder, buoyed by the Admirals praise, announced that the unknown vessel was transmitting.

‘This is the Silent Observer, in service to His Imperial Majesty’s Most Holy Inquisition. Our speed is our own business, our flight plan is classified and you now know we have all the authorisation we need. Stand down and prepare to be boarded.’

Many tombs are louder than the Operations room was at that moment. It was the Admiral who first regained his senses, leaning over Barclay’s shoulder to activate the microphone.  
‘This is Rear-Admiral Said of Iberian Customs and Excise, Director of Orbital Command. We are complying.’

The part of Castle Station that faced away from Iberia had very few windows, to preserve its integrity as a defensive platform. However, since it had taken over Air Traffic responsibilities, the Operations Room was built on the station’s underside, and had large angled windows looking down on the planet below. This meant that when the Silent Observer passed the station at a distance of only fifteen kilometres the crew were able to clearly see it. A true behemoth, eight kilometres long, the vessel had a rather subdued and angular prow, compared to the armoured works of art that comprised the Imperial Navy, indeed the ship kept as low a profile as was possible; a few squat lance turrets were its only visible form of armament and every possible surface was painted a matt black. As they watched the ship enter into a low orbit above Hive Castle itself, they saw great hangers opening on its flanks, and a flotilla of avian shapes emerged, spreading across the entire world.  
The Inquisition had made planetfall.


	2. Planetfall

Light from thousands of glittering spires illuminated the Valkyrie, the sun, reflected off innumerable windows, silhouetting the ships gunner as he scanned the city with his heavy bolter. Amelia was engrossed by the view, Hive Castle was truly a monument to Imperial architecture, stretching twelve miles into the sky and sprawling across a distance of hundreds of miles it was easily the largest city on the planet, five spires breaking the horizon with irregular slums and polluted industry filling the space in between. The city was bordered on one side by a mountain range that were as rolling hills compared to the spires, gradually sloping down through great ferrocrete landing platforms, surrounded by maze-like bunkers at which the kilometres long Administratum merchantmen collected the planet’s tithe, to a jungle of docks, jetties and warehouses and the hundreds of waterborne cargo ships which rotated through every day, bringing in Chromium for export off world and leaving laden with the products of Castle’s industry. 

Despite the vast sprawl, space was at a premium, and so the sides of the spires, with their commanding views, were the realm of the elite of the world’s social classes; the land above the haze of pollution, over which Amelia was currently soaring, was the domain of the noble houses and public buildings. The cathedrals of the Ecclesiarchical complex jutted outwards, images of the Emperor and his Primarchs on innumerable stained-glass windows made radiant through the sun’s light. Noble houses maintained sweeping vistas and rooftop gardens, kept safe from pollutants behind intricate panes of glass, or barely noticeable void shields. Architectural marvels of reinforced sandstone lay behind them, their roofs imitating the red terracotta tiles of the world’s pre-imperial architecture.

The Valkyrie circled the Hive’s primary spire, the domain of the central government of the entire system, gradually drawing closer to the buildings. It flew in a formation of eighteen other Valkyries, all surrounding an ornate Thunderhawk containing the Inquisitor himself. Fighter aircraft periodically roared past the formation, their air-to-ground munitions keeping the spire’s defences lowered in a gesture of supplication. Soon they arrived at a section of the hive that would have been prime real estate, overlooking the great landing fields and the ocean beyond. This segment of the hive was dominated by vast blockhouses and fortresses whose many weapon emplacements held a commanding view of all possible angles of approach. The ominous structures were entirely windowless, indeed the only changes from its featureless grey walls were its cavernous hangers, their doors now open to the environment, and the scales within a stylised I that marked this as the Precinct-Fortress for the world’s detachment of the Adeptus Arbites.

The hanger had an expectant atmosphere; a parade of uniformed but unarmed Arbites Officers stood at attention led by a cluster of visibly nervous Judges and Arbitrators. By the time Amelia’s vessel landed these figures were already gathered around the Inquisitor, who was engaged in a low conversation with a junior officer who seemed out of place amongst these senior figures until Amelia noticed the Inquisitorial sigil pinned to his collar, and the anger and suspicion radiating off the other officers. Despite the ceremonial greeting, the Inquisitor’s Stormtroopers had formed a defensive perimeter, and were openly aiming their weapons at their welcoming party. Eventually the Inquisitors conversation ceased, and an announcement was broadcast across the precinct’s tannoy in a stilted and artificial voice.

‘Attention. This facility is now under the control of Inquisitor Heydrax. All non-essential personnel are confined to barracks, and no Officer is to go armed unless ordered to do so by agents of the Throne. Dismissed.’

This was the que for the Inquisition to act, hauling cogitators, medical equipment and even furniture off their aircraft, before disappearing down the station’s corridors. Amelia’s group was no exception, the Chiurgeon handing one of his heavy cases to Amelia, who took one last look at the vista beyond the hanger doors before heading into the dark corridors of the precinct. She saw a trio of interceptors passing low over the grounds of some noble house. The aircraft were flying in a tight formation, seeming more avian than mechanical at this distance. Flashes of light emanated from their nose and rockets detached from their wingtips, striking the base of an ornate tower which shattered under the barrage and collapsed into a heap. Distance rendered the tableau eerily silent for a few seconds before the sounds of explosions, intermingled with crackling volleys of lasfire and the sharp retort of autoguns, reached her ears. 

Winding corridors filled the precinct, each as spartan as the exterior, designed to confuse escapees or attackers. Cameras were seemingly omnipresent and a strip of red wiring stretched along every wall, an alarm that would summon aid to that specific location in the event of an emergency. Each person in the team was laden with equipment, save for the interrogator who strode ahead, wholly indifferent to the struggles of his teammates. He issued a constant stream of instructions on the kind of setup he needed, as well as the nine levels of interrogation employed by the Inquisition, and the duties of the group in each of the levels. Amelia was silently grateful that she would not be needed until the fifth level; though she had been trained in interrogation technique she was thoroughly horrified by the process. Judging by the concerned impression on the Chirugeon’s face he was similarly uneasy about the prospect, but in the end both of them were bound by duty. 

Eventually they reached their destination, a repurposed cell block that, judging by the headache she got from the walls, Amelia assumed usually held Psykers awaiting collection by the Black Ships. Arbites staff had already set up some camp cots in one wing for the acolytes, leaving another wing unfurnished for any guests. Amelia’s horror at the cells, so similar to the one she had spent four months in before being taken aboard the Black Ship, was only kept in check by her neural inhibitors.

They toiled for an hour, unpacking the medical equipment, sweeping the area for bugs and checking the security of the bindings before Interrogator Dray received word through his earpiece that their first guest would soon be arriving. He gathered the team in the interrogation room, and gave them their briefing. 

Duque Antone Benvente was the patriarch of the influential House Benevente, an ancient line whose sons had filled the ranks of the world’s elite military forces since the planet’s settlement, and whose holdings included a thousand square kilometres of arable land, as well as industrial and mining operations. It was a Benevente soldier in the Guard who had been found with a heretical talisman and so sparked the entire investigation, Benevente’s house guards had then earned another black mark by firing on the Inquisition when they arrived, necessitating the use of air-strikes to bring them into compliance. The house also had close ties to the world’s Death Cults, though that was true of the entire nobility, ostensibly pro-Imperial groups comprised of the daughters of nobility who were barred from military service and so sought to venerate the Emperor by killing underhive gangers in a form of blood sacrifice. Antone’s own daughter was believed to be one of the Cult’s elite, and was currently missing. Their objectives were to determine the location of Maria Benevente, as well as investigate the House for any heretical connections. Dismissing the team, the interrogator went to ensure that the final preparations had been made.

Within the hour, a man dressed in scorched finery was manhandled into the interrogation room. He was slightly overweight, and above average height. The burlap sack over his head would have made it difficult for blunts to judge his mood, but Amelia could feel waves of fear radiating off of him, buried under a veneer of confidence. Normally he would have been left to stew in those fears for days, but time was of the essence so the interrogator began immediately.

Inquisitorial interrogation was moulded by ten thousand years of evolution to a kind of art form. The first two levels of interrogation were largely conversational, first the Interrogator would identify his status as a member of the Inquisition, but would employ no other form of coercion. Then, the threat of violence would be employed, including a verbal description of the higher levels of interrogation. At the third level the prisoner was made to feel uncomfortable through light physical torture, such as a conventional beating or waterboarding. Antone was resilient, and the interrogator moved up to the fourth level, employing greater physical violence and the use of threats to close family members. Unfortunately, there had been few of these on his estate and Antone was unimpressed by the use of level three interrogation on his nephew, declaring that the boy had always been ‘as weak as his damned mother.’

By this point, twenty-four hours had passed and the Interrogator was being placed under increasing pressure to deliver a result. As he worked himself up into a rage over his failures, Amelia took the time for a welcome reprieve, managing to worm her way into the card games the Stormtroopers were playing, or conversing with the Chirugeon to pass the time. The man was a treasure trove of stories, but, just as he was getting to how a lower hive Medicae ended up torturing for the Inquisition, the Interrogator, the rage that radiated off him hidden behind a carefully crafted mask of cruel indifference, beckoned Amelia over.

‘This noble prick is tougher than he has any right to be. I’m moving on to the Fifth Tier, which means you can finally be of use. You’re disgustingly new, but I’m assuming you learned more in witch school than how to lift teacups. You need to find his daughter, Maria. The bitch is in the elite team of one of the largest Death Cults on this Emperor-forsaken world. Deactivate your inhibitors and do not fail me.’

He turned to the soldiers, who had hastily put their cards away, and pointed at one, seemingly at random.

‘You! You’re on containment, watch both her and him for any sign of psychic trickery, psychic blocks are popular amongst the idle rich, and there may be demonic interference. Worst case, you get to use that shiny gun of yours.’

Amelia’s upper neck contained cybernetics that limited the scale of her powers, and the accompanying risk; they also suppressed strong emotions, and so the first sensation Amelia felt upon deactivating them was an all-encompassing panic. She was suddenly acutely aware of just how fragile her mind was, a teacup filled with a storm of psychic energy that could spill over at any moment. Worse still was the constant gnawing sensation she could feel at the edge of her mind, the chittering scratches of her own fears and doubts working away at her mind. Long practice had been unable to erase this fear, but she had learned to bring her emotion in check, and focus her mind outwards instead of in.

Her colleagues became open books, the Chiurgeon’s psyche at war with the man he used to be before the purges, the Stormtrooper assigned as her watcher was superstitious and fearful, but also feeling sorry for the waif of a girl young enough to be his daughter, the tech-adept, who until now had been almost unnoticeable, glowed with hidden ambitions of advancing his station, envisioning himself atop a great machine with faceless followers toiling like ants to his design. The Interrogator’s mind was a closed book to her, wires implanted directly into his brain keeping her at bay. Similarly guarded was the mind she felt inside the cell, though he lacked any kind of mechanical aid. Instead, the long practice of a career in cutthroat politics kept his thoughts hidden.

Amelia sat in front of the noble, his finery now in tatters, his bones broken and reset dozens of times over, and his face still covered by the hood. Gradually, Amelia probed his mind, sending waves of comfort throughout him until she his upon the right combination of emotions to draw the man’s mind towards a place he felt safe and comforted. Seizing upon the memory and enhancing it, Amelia drew herself into his mind.

_I am sitting in my solar in the Antevian mountains, the crisp mountain air is blowing through the open balcony, and I can see all the way down to the vast fields of wheat in the valley below, at which my subjects work in a pastoral ideal. There is a woman standing next to me, a strange figure in a long black coat whose hair has been shaved completely off the sides of her head and replaced with horrifying machinery. She does not belong…_

_There is a woman standing next to me, she has the face of my dear Maria. This is a centre of business, no place for my little girl. She does not belong…_

_A servant stands next to me, a tray of drinks in her hand. I pay her no mind. This is my sanctuary, located in the centre of my holdings, surrounded by vast mountains and carefully concealed defences. My house guards, dressed in their glorious blue uniforms, will never let any harm come to me here. It is my refuge from domestic and external strife. I am safe here._

_There are papers on my desk before me, they concern my daughter. She is to be married to the son of a powerful noble house, she will bear them strong sons, who will join our elite forces. It is the duty of the nobility to fight, since time immemorial our house has raised commandoes to fight for Nova Iberia. My daughter cannot be marrying, she has not yet proved herself. She told me as much, earlier today…_

The servant standing by Duque Benevente grasped at this new memory, shifting their surroundings until they stood in the war room of House Benevente in Hive Castle. The Duke now stood atop a raised dais overlooking a great hololithic projection of the airspace over hive castle. Officers in red uniforms were engaged in hurried conversation on the floor below with another standing behind his left shoulder. Leaning over the railing was a lithe woman of around eighteen in a skin-tight black bodysuit plated with red lamellar scales. Two stiletto blades were belted to her waist, and a discrete needler pistol was strapped to her thigh. Her head was covered by a tight executioner’s skullcap that exposed only her red lips and piercing blue eyes. A blonde ponytail snaked its way out of a hole in her hood and down to her lower back. She was soon joined by another figure as the servant shifted her form into a similar assassin. 

_‘The Inquisition are coming.’ my daughter says to me, her voice trained by the finest tutors to display no hint of concern over the fact. I, however, know my daughter better._

_‘They have come to destroy the noble houses,’ she tells me, ‘any power that predates the Imperium terrifies them. They don’t understand that it is only through our nobility that our home is prosperous.’_

_I am proud of my daughter; she understands, better than any in my family, the importance of keeping the nobility strong. We may provide tithes of lesser men to the Imperial Guard but a battalion of peasant soldiers is no match for a section of commandos from a noble house. Wars are not won by the big battalions, but the finest soldiers, and our houses have been breeding for excellence for millennia. Our sons train every day of their life to fight the covert wars, whilst our daughters bloody themselves on underhive vermin that they may add to the strength of their sons, rather than take from it._

_‘My cult is close to being the strongest in the world, we only have one test left to pass before being embraced as warriors of the highest degree. I can’t let a decade’s worth of effort end in the cells of the Inquisition. Please, father, you must hold them off long enough for me to make my escape.’_

_It is like I have been stabbed, what my beloved daughter suggests will see the ruin of my house. I trust her because my blood runs in her veins but I must understand what she is saying._

_‘Maria, you have worked harder than any of your siblings. I love you, but more than that, I respect you for what you have turned yourself into. You are all our ideals as a people made manifest but you are asking me to weigh your life against that of the entire House.’_

_She turns from the balcony, and looks me in the eye._

_‘A blade in the right place can do the work of an entire army. The Inquisition’s forces will destroy our house either way, it doesn’t matter if it’s under their guns or if we will die slowly in their cells. My cult has proven ourselves worthy of attending the Warrior’s Trials, our world’s greatest warriors, gathered in one place. We will strike from the shadows at the Inquisition, until their losses become so great, they are forced to recognise the nobility as the rulers of Iberia or risk seeing the planet fall into anarchy. Papa, please, this is my chance to truly ascend! To test myself against a foe worth fighting!’_

_My daughter speaks the truth, she has always been wise beyond her years. The nobility are the best of our world, but it must be the best of the nobility who face this threat. I embrace my daughter, whispering in her ear. <_

_‘Goodbye, Maria. You carry with you a terrible burden, the legacy of House Benevente itself. Do not let this be in vain.’_

_I watch my daughter leave for the last time, to bothering to hide the tears that are streaming down my face. The captain of the House Guard stands by my side, loyal until the end. On the display, four gunships divert from the swarm descending on my beautiful world, heading for my home. In spite of everything that I now face I remain calm. I know I will never betray my Maria._

_‘Deploy the garrison. Fire on those vessels. Do not let our sacrifice be in vain.’_

Amelia withdrew carefully from the mind, taking time to adjust to using her own senses again. Before her sat Duque Benevente, his steely exterior broken, replaced by a broken man wracked by guilt at his betrayal. Amelia stood and left the room, followed by her minder, leaving the weeping man to face his sins alone. 


	3. Knives in the Dark

It had taken Amelia eleven hours to parse her way through the Duque’s head and, as she withdrew the ties she had created in and amongst his synapses, she felt fatigue setting in. The Interrogator displayed no visible reaction as Amelia delivered her report, but his mind became alive with endless possibility as she repeated Maria Benevente’s words. Without so much as a word of praise, he strode off to seek out the Inquisitor, though Amelia was far too tired by this point to care. There was no visible change within the labyrinthine depths of the precinct to indicate night and day, but the chronograph on the wall read well after midnight, and the rest of the team was asleep in their converted cells. Amelia found her own cell and fell face first onto the camp cot, too tired to even take off her boots.

The walls echoed with sharp cracks, and Amelia woke with a start into a pitch-black room. Gunfire was echoing throughout the halls, the harsh retort of bolters intermingled with the crack of lasfire, all made indistinct by echoes. Amelia checked herself over for her weapons, retrieving her staff from where it sat propped against the wall and buckling her sword to her belt. Gathering her courage, she went to the door, only to find that the cell had been locked during the night. She pounded her fists against the door and screamed as loud as she could, hoping someone would notice her. Her telepathic senses stretched out to find anyone, but the cell had been designed to hold unsanctioned psykers and rewarded her efforts with stabs of pain as her mind touched the walls. Gunfire echoed closer and closer, now joined by the screeching of metal as rounds hit nearby bulkheads. Amelia pressed herself against the cell’s rear wall, trying to make as small a target as possible. Running feet could be heard outside the cell and a bolter was fired just outside her door.

In response, a volley of shots burst into Amelia’s cell, shattering into fragments that pierced the ceiling. Beams of light swept past the holes as the aggressors passed her by, shouting ‘all clear’ to some hidden colleague before departing. Amelia lay huddled on the ground for some time, afraid to move until she was sure the attackers had left. Reaching out with her mind through the broken door she felt no sign of the attackers, and a wounded man at the end of the cell block. The door had been practically blown off its hinges by the bolt rounds but it was still some time before she was able to force it open and step outside, her snub-nosed revolver raised more for comfort than anything else. The corridor was dark, occasional red emergency lights providing scant illumination, and at its end lay the Interrogator in a pool of his own gore. 

His ornate cuirass had a single hole in it, but the blood pouring out of the base showed that a bolt round had pierced the plate, before detonating internally. A second round had cost him his jaw and much of his neck was now open. Amelia scanned his mind as she approached, its synapses were slowly fading as the flow of blood to them was interrupted but he was still lucid.

‘You can’t talk,’ Amelia said as she knelt before him, reaching out a hand towards his cheek, ‘but you can still tell me who did this to you. Just think about them, and I’ll see.’ 

The man made no visible response, but his mind fired and Amelia was able to latch onto an image. An Arbitrator stood at the end of the corridor; a bolter held expertly in his hands. His uniform had been augmented by a rusty red sash tied around his waist, and a skull formed of angled shapes had been painted onto the helmet that shrouded the top half of his face. The shape of it hurt too look at, bringing forth a sensation of corruption that almost overpowered Amelia. She left the Interrogator’s mind and he breathed his last, having spent himself to give Amelia the image of their foe. She took one last look at her Interrogator, and wandered off into the labyrinth. 

As she passed her cell, noxious fumes spilled through the broken door, pooling in the corridor. The emergency countermeasures meant to deal with uncontrollable psykers had been activated, and the rest of her team were likely dead in their own cells. The enemy clearly had control over the facility, the red emergency lighting was the only available light source and none of the alarms had been activated. Amelia strode down empty corridors, every room she passed had been locked and Amelia was struck by an oppressive sensation of isolation. Eventually, the faint sound of combat echoed through the corridors to her; she hurried towards it, desperate to find an ally in this place. 

Soon the sounds of gunfire were replaced by the clashing of steel on steel and the whirring of some unknown machine. Rounding the corridor, Amelia saw a mountain of steel and wire fighting two death cultists in attire similar to that Maria had worn in House Benevente. The monstrosity was matching their needle-thin daggers with a colossal axe, whilst sweeping at them with heavy pincers bolted to what may have been its shoulders. It wore blood red robes trimmed with white gears around dull metal armour that framed a human skull laden with augmetics. The cultists were weaving in and out of the whirling dervish of metal, landing hits on the monstrosities armour but failing to hit the gaps between the armoured plates. 

Utterly oblivious to Amelia’s presence, the trio moved up and down the hall following the momentum of the fight, carving large ruts into the corridor and stepping over and, in the priest’s case, through the remains of two gun-servitors. Amelia sent her knife flying through the head of one of the cultists, breaking through the base of the skull and poking out of her eye socket before returning back to Amelia, leaving only a neat hole. The second cultist, distracted by her compatriot’s sudden death, failed to stop a large pincer from gripping her head, the tech-priest crushing it in one swift movement before throwing the body aside. It turned to Amelia and spoke, a distorted voice that might once have been female emerging from speakers on her shoulders.

‘The machine spirits of this place are being uncooperative.’ she said, without even acknowledging the bloody melee, ‘Inquisitor Heydrax has tasked me with reaching the Central Information Centre. You will accompany me.’

‘Right.’ Amelia sighed as the tech-priest turned to leave without even waiting for her reply.

The duo made their way through the precinct, Amelia keeping an open mind to warn her of any other people. Every now and then her mind would touch those of solitary figures or small groups that were roving the halls. Amelia could tell their allegiance through the subtle sensation of wrongness they emitted, as well as their fierce rage masked by discipline. It was a risk to willingly expose herself to corrupted minds, but less of a risk than accidentally running into an enemy patrol. Eventually, Amelia sensed a trio of minds dominated by drill and ritual that served to suppress their fear, a trio of Stormtroopers sheltering in a small office. They were all too eager to follow Amelia and the Priest, glad to be able to actively do something to combat the threat. After some deliberation, the leader of the trio, a Lance-Corporal, decided that Amelia would be more open to conversation than the inhuman tech-priest.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’ He asked, more out of curiosity than fear.

‘Some of the Arbitrators have turned on us, they let in Death Cultists, took control of the building and gassed those they could.’ Amelia informed him.

‘Shit. We fought a squad of soldiers that looked like they came from some noble house, killed two of my men before we brought them down. Seems the whole damn planet has turned on us.’

The two of them jumped as the tech-priest suddenly spoke up.

‘That statement is false. We have passed many Arbites barrack blocks on our route, all of which have been locked with the occupants presumably trapped within.’

Amelia cast her mind towards a locked room. Inside she could feel a dozen minds, each fearful and angry at their imprisonment. When compared to the minds of the enemies wandering the halls they may as well have been an open book. It was then realisation struck.

‘Only the elite betrayed us; this planet reveres special forces so they only induct the best into the cult, probably through training exercises with the noble houses. This Precinct is the Arbites headquarters for the entire planet, there are hundreds of loyalists surrounding us, all we need to do is let them out!’

Amelia could feel the relief emanating from the stormtroopers, the satisfaction of a soldier who has a plan of attack. The tech-priest, on the other hand, was so inhuman as to be unreadable, though Amelia convinced herself that she was pleased.

Suddenly, one of the stormtroopers dropped as two men in black carapace armour fell upon them from the rafters. One had fallen on the trooper, plunging a combat knife into his neck, a second before the other, giving the Corporal time to push Amelia out of his way; the monomolecular blade instead severing the wire that connected his rifle to its battery pack, spraying white hot sparks that lit up the corridor in an artificial glow. The Corporal immediately went on the offensive, using his now useless weapon as a club to force the man backwards. The other trooper kicked the second attacker, who was pulling his blade out of the body, sending him careening into the wall. He recovered fast and leapt off the wall just before it was scorched by a volley of lasfire, tackling the trooper to the ground and sliding his blade into the gap below the man’s helmet. 

Amelie forced herself out of shock and gathered power in her hood, before unleashing it in a terrifying psychic shriek that shattered the glass in the man’s visor, before liquifying the brain that lay behind it. She then turned to the man attacking the corporal, gathering tendrils of her own mind into her staff before launching them, seizing control of his motor functions. He froze, and Amelia could feel his eyes darting from left to right in confusion behind his opaque visor before widening in horror as the corporal drew his side arm and executed him.

As he exchanged his rifle with his dead colleague’s the corporal shifted one of the bodies, staring at an insignia, before turning to Amelia.

‘You were right, these guys are with a PDF kill team, more elites.’ He paused ‘You know… you’re pretty terrifying.’ At this he held out a gloved hand, ‘Marcus Flavius. Thanks for the save.’

Amelia smiled before shaking his hand, ‘Amelia Lafayette. We’re even now, he’d have skewered me if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way.’

Their newfound camaraderie was interrupted by the emotionless tech priest strolling off ahead, after admonishing them for wasting time.

Soon they found themselves before the precinct’s auxiliary control centre. Amelia gestured silently for the group to stop before they wandered into view. The centre was in the middle of a panopticon of five stories of cells, atop a raised tower twelve meters high. The cells themselves were empty, all the prisoners having been transferred or executed once the building passed into Inquisitorial hands, but there were eight men guarding the entrance to the tower, and another figure inside it. Through the eyes of one of the enemy Amelia was able to see they each wore bright red uniforms, suggesting they were with a noble house, carried ornate long barrelled autorifles and ceremonial swords and had positioned four heavy stubbers with a clear view of the rooms entrance. The tower itself had six lasrifle turrets linked to the central control room, covering a complete arc of fire.

Their team simply wasn’t resilient enough to withstand that kind of fire and a fierce but almost silent debate emerged over their next course of action, Flavius arguing they should find reinforcements whilst the tech-priest wished to simply charge the tower. In the end, it was Amelia who provided the solution.

‘I can make us invisible.’ This was met by disbelieving stares, even the tech-priest’s bare skull managed to look confused. ‘I can hide us from their thoughts, then we can seize the tower and the turrets.’

‘And you’ve done this before?’ Flavius questioned.

‘Not with this many people, but yes.’ Amelia was now much more hesitant about the plan.

Flavius paused a moment, deep in thought.

‘Fuck it.’ He exclaimed as loudly as the circumstances allowed. ‘Let’s just walk out there.’

The four agents of the throne walked through the centre of their enemies, Amelia sweating with the effort of controlling the minds of eight different pairs of eyes. She kept her own closed to help deal with the flow of information, with her hand on Flavius’ shoulder guiding her to the entrance. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the door to the tower and after another eternity, as the tech-priest loudly hacked the lock, stepped through, sealing the door behind them. Amelia exhaled and leaned against the wall for support as the two stormtroopers rushed up the stairs two as a time, giving the enemy slicer in the control tower only an instant to express surprise before an overcharged shot burst his head.

Amelia began to make her way upstairs when she heard the sound of the exterior turrets firing on the tower’s guards. She was passed halfway up by Lance-Corporal Flavius and his last remaining soldier, who told her they were going to watch the entrance. Once at the top she was met by an unsettling sight. It was hard to tell where the tech priest ended and the control panel began; thick tendrils of wire stretched out of her misshapen chassis into very input port the computer had, as well as directly into the cogitator stacks and stabbed at random intervals into the walls. One tendril was even merged with some wires running inside the roof; a ceiling panel lay in a crumpled mess in the corner of the room. 

Before her lay a bank of cameras most displaying firefights, small holdouts of Inquisitorial forces standing their ground against the traitors. Amelia saw a woman in the power armour of the Sister’s of Battle firing her boltgun full auto from behind the reception of a small complex of offices in which a field hospital had been established by other Sisters. On another screen a bearded priest built like a brick shithouse, equal parts muscle and fat, swung a massive chainsword down, bisecting a cultist that had tried to flank a barricade of crates and barrels from which a section of stormtroopers was firing into the darkness. 

A third screen drew her attention; the Inquisitor himself, surrounded by elite warriors from all walks of life, stood in mortal combat against a foe that made Amelia’s breath stick in her throat. The Inquisitor was wearing his power armour, but he was dwarfed by his opponent; a giant stood before him, two and a half meters tall and dressed in a blood red suit of twisted and misshapen suit of power armour. The suit was trimmed with silver and his left shoulder pad bore a horned skull, surrounded by flames and esoteric sigils. He carried a sword as long as Amelia was tall that glowed with eldritch power, and he met the Inquisitor and his cohort with a rage tempered by millennia of discipline. His armour hurt Amelia to look at, and so she reluctantly turned to face the tech priest, whose own skull was at least human.

‘I now have full control of the systems.’ The tech-priest said, punctuating the statement by turning on the lighting across the entire precinct. ‘You will direct the deployment of the Arbites.’

‘I will?’ Amelia cried out. Stunned by the suggestion.

‘Unaugmented Humans are reliant on their emotional cores when making decisions. I seldom speak Gothic, and my voice has been referred to as ‘harsh’ and ‘irritating’ as a result. You have a baseline human voice. Biologis studies have also shown humans are better manipulated emotionally by female voices.’

Realising that she was getting nowhere, Amelia sat before the control panel. Since being collected by the Black Ships twelve years ago she had sought to maintain as low a profile as possible, to avoid the notice first of her guards, then her instructors and now her peers. The microphone before her would broadcast her voice to the entire precinct, to the Inquisitor himself, but if she didn’t act then dozens would die. Amelia swallowed her fears, and hit the transmit button.

‘This is Amelia Lafayette, Acolyte of the Inquisition. This precinct has been infiltrated by the forces of Chaos. An elite team of Arbitrators, your own comrades in arms, have turned on you and let in heretics and cultists.’

Her words were broadcast through every speaker in the facility, as every combatant paused briefly in shock before resuming their fight.

‘They seized control of your precinct, locking you in your own barracks and gassing the agents of the Inquisition in your cells.’

In dozens of barrack blocks throughout the precinct hundreds of Arbites stopped their efforts to escape and listened.

‘My team fought our way through and placed this facility back in Imperial hands, in your hands.’

Every single locked door opened as one, and hundreds of Arbites poured out into the halls. Some ran straight into enemies, who fired into the crowds but were overcome by weight of numbers and bludgeoned to death by bare fists.

‘It now falls to you to take back your home, to drive back the enemy who dares make a mockery of the sanctity of this place, who rides roughshod over Imperial Law.’

Arbites pour into the now open armouries, collecting bolters and shotguns from the racks and distributing them amongst the crowd. One trooper grabbed a box of riot shells through force of habit, but he quickly had it taken from him by a sergeant and replaced by crate after crate of live ammunition.

‘Gather into your squads and report in to me. Your orders are to sweep this facility for rogue PDF kill teams, death cultists, house guards and your own traitorous brothers in arms, who have painted a red skull on their helmets. They are led by a traitorous space marine, a monster who betrayed the Emperor himself ten thousand years ago. I will direct you to where the fighting is thickest. Tremble before the majesty of the Emperor, for we all walk in his Immortal shadow.’

Dozens of squads of grey-blue armoured troopers now charged through the halls. Hardened veterans of the street fought beside office bound investigators, their righteous anger motivating them to feats of heroism. The small teams of heretic infiltrators were overwhelmed by sheer numbers, blown apart by bolt shells or crushed beneath power mauls. The isolated pockets of Inquisitorial resistance were found, and joined in on the offensive. Directing all of this, a young woman sat beneath a priest of the Mechanicus, leading the righteous to the enemy made visible by the precinct’s omniscient camera network. The Inquisitor, half his team dead at the hands of the traitorous marine, let out an uncharacteristic smile as innumerable Arbites flooded the room, their massed bolter fire giving the Astartes pause long enough for the Inquisitor to plunge his blade into its torso, bisecting the ancient warrior.

Amelia was juggling hundreds of soldiers; an entire army was relying on her work. She was busier than she had ever been, working on a task more taxing than any psychic effort, and yet she felt a thrill she had not felt since she was first brought to the Imperial palace to be assessed. For the first time in a decade, she felt truly alive.


	4. Emergency Measures

‘The situation has worsened.’

The Inquisitor stood at the head of a long table of carved oak, flanked by robed Crusaders in heavy plate, looking down the table’s length to the retainers gathered on either side. The conference room bore the symbol of the Adeptus Arbites inlaid in gold leaf along the length of the table, but one of his servants had hung banners around the room displaying the Inquisitorial sigil, making the room’s new purpose clear to all.

‘Last night, an Imperial Navy transport slipped its moorings above the world of Deliverance, and entered the Warp heading towards the Wrath of the Hungering Gyre, a region at the edge of Imperial Space frequented by Heretics and Renegades. The ship was carrying elements of the Iberian 7th Commando Regiment and the Naval Provosts believe the ship was hijacked. Twelve other vessels, each carrying elements of Iberian Commando regiments, have gone dark. Their current location is unknown.’

He paused, taking in the assembled agents arrayed in order of seniority before him, an eclectic group of talented individuals from all walks of life, though severely reduced in number since the events of last night. Like him, they were all standing; the motley collection of armour and augmetics they wore rendering the finely carved wooden chairs insufficient. His eyes drifted to the far end of the table where the most junior of his retinue stood, those who had proved themselves worthy of replacing the senior agents lost in the fighting.

‘Our presence here has forced the enemy to play their hand and reveal their scheme.’ He gestured to the wizened old man standing at his left-hand side, his head shrouded in a hood of steel plates. 

‘Autosavant Wrexley has scoured the records of Imperial Guard actions involving Iberian Commandos, and linked the supposed death of thousands of squads over hundreds of years to a sudden increase in the enemy’s combat ability. It appears the military of this world is embroiled in a warrior cult designed to provide the Lost and Damned with elite soldiers to match our own Militarum Tempestus. The troopers are dispatched to warzones through the Guard levy where, when opportunity arises, they are declared “missing in action” and join the enemy as instructors or special forces. In addition, Explicator Buress’ interrogation of House Aragon’s seneschal revealed that commando forces are also sent off world to serve as guards for cults operating on Imperial worlds, whilst Interrogator Dray’s own investigation tied the cult to the highest echelons of Nobility.’

Amelia stood at the farthest end of the room, trying to pay as much attention to the Inquisitor as possible without making direct eye contact. The mention of her former Interrogator only made her feel further out of place, a reminder that she had been brought here to fill a dead-man’s boots. She had gone from an anonymous member of the Inquisitors retinue to the centre of silent attention; everyone in the precinct had heard her voice last night, and everyone had linked it to her face when the Inquisitor himself announced her promotion to a Throne Agent.

‘The mention of my former Interrogator brings us to last night. These are the events as we know them: at oh-two-fifteen hanger four was opened remotely by the Rapid Response Team assigned to this precinct. One of their members sliced the system from the tertiary control tower, which was unmanned at the time. The remainder of the squad overcame the guards patrolling the halls, letting in four quadcopters, each carrying forty men. The enemy were commando teams drawn from the PDF, Noble Houses and Death Cults and were led by a traitor Marine of the Word Bearers legion. ‘

‘Most of our forces spent the battle locked in their cells, two teams fell victim to the poison gas in the Psyker holding cells. Twelve teams managed to free themselves, and contributed to the defensive. Canoness-Commander Persephone, your defence of the field hospital was vital in securing a staging ground for retaking the facility and you have my gratitude.’

A stern looking woman in blood red power armour nodded, her face half covered in dressings.

‘Whilst our soldiers suffered when isolated, we were able to gather together in defensible positions and hold for reinforcements. Those reinforcements were provided by Magos Zeletrass, who I tasked with restoring control of our systems.’

Amelia finally recognised the bare skull of the tech-priest who stood at the Inquisitor’s right hand; though she had seemingly switched out all of her limbs overnight, the bare skull unmistakably belonged to the same tech-priest who she had followed last night. Amelia looked on in silent horror as the Magos gave her what was probably supposed to be a discreet wave, but looked more like an industrial accident.

‘Marshal Taimur, your report.’ The Inquisitor said, nodding to a man in an armoured suit of layered plates of steel, whose weathered features and neat beard spoke of his previous life on the desert world of Tallarn. He had lost his arm in the fighting, and had not yet acquired a replacement; his empty sleeve hung from a stud on his chestpiece.

‘My Lord. Overall, we lost one hundred and fifty-three men last night, roughly a quarter of our planetside forces. We can replace the men with reserves from the ship, but the point is we remain overstretched on this world. Last night proved that my men are too few in number to guard a facility of this size, the fortress is simply too big. The investigation has shown that the cult limits itself to the nobility, as such I am recommending the security of this site be turned back over to the Arbites. They more than proved their loyalty to the Imperium last night. This will free up my men to assist the investigation teams. ‘

‘In addition, I am recommending we make use of the PDF in any large-scale operations; the enlisted ranks are drawn from this world’s peasantry, whilst the officers are largely the lesser sons of merchant families. Our enemy have been training to fight stormtroopers their entire lives, if we are to defeat them, we must rely on conventional warfare. There is, of course, the risk of corruption amongst their ranks, but we can limit the information they receive. If you desire it, my Lord, I shall have the Astropaths signal Sector Command and request a Guard Regiment, but they will take at least a month to arrive.’

‘That will not be necessary’ The Inquisitor replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We will use local forces for the time being. It may be necessary to entirely purge the nobility of this world, and using the PDF will make the transitional government smoother. For now, formally rearm the Adeptus Arbites and have them take up guard alongside our own men.

These are your orders: Autosavant Wrexley, you are to arrange a meeting with the PDF’s General Staff and the High Court of the Arbites. Magos Zeletrass, have your assets scour the planets archives for any information about Black Ops facilities that the enemy may be using. Marshal Taimur, take command of the PDF and raid the locations identified by the Magos. Canoness-Commander, you are to raid the Death-Cult temples identified by my covert operatives. The remainder of you are to continue with your previously assigned tasks, with the exception of Throne-Agent Lafayette.’

Amelia froze at the sudden attention, she stood at the very end of the table, next to the most junior agents and they were all staring at this stranger who had caught the Inquisitors attention.

‘You were promoted to Throne-Agent only by virtue of being the last surviving member of your team, however Magos Zeletrass speaks highly of your resolve.’

The Magos offered another wave, seemingly meant to be cheeky. Her grinning skull leered at Amelia.

‘This Warrior’s Trial you learned of intrigues me. You are to learn whatever you can about it, and keep me well informed. To this end, and due solely to the recommendation of my Right Hand, you are assigned the rank of Prime-Agent, and placed in command of a new team. A lot of responsibility now rests on your shoulders. Do not disappoint me.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Amelia stammered, bowing as she did so. Once she rose, it was to the contemptuous gaze of those junior agents with more seniority than her. She had just shot above them in rank and status.  
The Inquisitor dismissed the audience and the assembled acolytes bowed before filing out.

Two days later, Amelia found herself once again staring at her reflection. Her office looked into an interrogation cell, but the lights inside were off and the glass wall was now a mirror on both sides. Her stormcoat was now held open, displaying a steel breastplate with an eye carved into the centre, resting atop a golden Aquila. It had arrived on the day of her promotion, a gift from the Magos who had sponsored her advancement. It was the first possession she had owned in twelve years, and her heart filled with pride at the sight of it. Pragmatism had led to her replacing the snub-nosed revolver with a standard laspistol, bought from a stormtrooper with her first ever wages, and she wore it in a holster on her thigh. It was unlikely she would ever use it but it comforted her to know she was no longer completely helpless. Her face, framed by this new finery, was unchanged, still perpetually tired from her work, and the stress of her psychic powers. She at least appeared happier than she once did. Her neural inhibitor was no longer forced upon her, and she rejoiced in the sensation of feeling.

The office itself was also hers, for the duration of the investigation at least, although she had neither the time nor the decorations to leave her mark on it. A simple desk of polished wood sat in the centre of the room, requisitioned from deeper in the precinct, atop which a portable cogitator rested; light enough to be carried by two men and linked into the Noosphere, it was her secure terminal and her primary means of communication. Behind it sat a high backed, red leather, chair, liberated by her security detail from the offices of a senior Arbitrator, and presented to her as a gift from them. It was the most comfortable thing she had ever experienced, and she had fallen asleep in its padded depths more often than in her own bed.

A knocking at her door broke her reverie and she moved to sit at her desk, determined to present a professional front, before bidding her guest enter. The robed figure who entered the room before offering Amelia a short bow was Scribe Brazier, Amelia’s adjutant. The idea of someone whose sole role was to make Amelia’s work easier was still new to her, and she still felt a little awkward around the dutiful girl. Still, Amelia had to admit that she was essential in dealing with the minutia of reports and documentation that were a part of life Amelia herself was entirely unfamiliar with. A small girl in her late teens, Helena Brazier tended to fade into the background, a result of deliberate effort on her part. She wore plain grey robes that showed her past with the Administratum, where she served amongst the lowest of their order, and kept her bright blonde hair, which she grew long, hidden underneath her hood. Amelia knew that her hair was her secret pride; Administratum drones normally shaved their heads. She tolerated the small deception, understanding the importance of having something to call your own.

‘Madam.’ The girl said, her head lowered. ‘One of the Prisoners has been linked to the Warrior’s Trial, and is being brought here now.’

‘Excellent,’ Amelia replied, unable to keep the joy from her voice, ‘have Sergeant Flavius prepare the interrogation room.’ After two days of searching through the PDF’s archives, one of the prisoners taken in the raid had been identified, and his name matched a list of attendees.

‘Yes, Madam.’ Helena said, bowing before leaving the office. It still irritated Amelia that the girl called her madam, she guessed that she was at most two years older than the scribe, but rank, and the rigours of psychic power, seemed to age Amelia in the girl’s eyes.

Within moments, the light in the interrogation room was tuned on, and Amelia watched as Sergeant Flavius began checking over the secure chair in the centre of the room. Formally Lance-Corporal Flavius, the man had been promoted after their shared escapades a few nights ago, and now led her security detail, consisting of his one surviving stormtrooper and a team of Arbites. He was helmetless, a rare sight indeed, and his shaven head and scarred cheek spoke of the life he had enjoyed in the Imperial Guard. He was eager to swap stories with the other Stormtroopers or the Arbites, but he had adopted a professional distance between himself and Amelia, respecting the rank she now held. Amelia understood his reasoning, but she still felt it a shame that she was now isolated by her status, rather than her lack thereof.

Turning from the soldier, Amelia reviewed the Prisoner’s details on her terminal. The man was Ensign Alexander Quixote, of a minor noble family. He had excelled at martial training within his House, and so had been given over to Special Forces Command, which fed into the Imperial Guard. Whilst in the PDF his Kill-Team had excelled in their training, and been accepted as one of sixty-four teams chosen to attend the first stage of the Warrior’s Trial. Naturally, nothing was mentioned about the trial itself but a note in his service record stated that his unit had been one of the eight fire teams to proceed to the second stage. This made him their most useful source of information, indeed the only source they had been able to find in two days.

There was another knock at her door, this time more urgent.  
‘Ma’am.’ Flavius said, standing at attention. Amelia immediately decided she preferred Ma’am to Madam, it conveyed a more martial than matronly image.

‘The Prisoner has arrived, but you’re not going to like the state he’s in.’

This was punctuated by the door to the interrogation room opening. An arbitrator walked in pulling a hospital gurney atop which lay the shredded remains of a man. His lower body was missing, a clean cut suggesting he had been bisected by a power sword, and his body was covered in signs of torture. The man had no eyes, and his body was a patchwork of chemical burns and shallow cuts that had barely healed. He was comatose, kept alive only by a complicated life support machine, and the ministrations of the Mechanicus Adept attending it.

Some of Amelia’s rage must have slipped into the stare she fixed Flavius with; his next sentence was delivered with a rushed stammer.

‘The team we took him from had already interrogated him, he’s comatose, but still alive. The Throne-Agent who released him to us said his mind was probably still intact.’

Calming down, Amelia accepted his feeble justification. It was not his fault, nor was it the fault of the other Agent, though he had doubtless enjoyed the opportunity to screw over the rising star. Still, a probing thought revealed the man’s mind was still functional, barely. Amelia would simply have to make the best of a bad situation. Amelia stepped out of her office, followed by an apologetic Flavius who put his helmet back on the moment he left the room.

‘Adjutant Brazier, inform the Inquisitor we will be commencing a level seven Interrogation. Do not interrupt me under any circumstances.’

The girl scurried off and Amelia turned to the Stormtrooper. 

‘Sergeant Flavius, I need you in the cell with me. If his mind is cursed then there is a chance, I will be unable to cope. If I start to show signs of possession or collapse then I need you to kill me. Understood?’  
‘Yes, Ma’am’ he replied, his featureless helmet displaying no emotion, though Amelia sensed slight reluctance from him. Good, she thought, he won’t shoot me for no good reason.

Amelia entered the cell, seating herself before the gurney. Flavius took up position in the room’s corner, his rifle charged and ready. The two Arbitrators who had been guarding the prisoner left on Amelia’s command, and took up position outside the cell. The prisoner was truly disgusting up close, but Amelia was less squeamish than she had been a few days ago. The violence she had seen had hardened her heart to bloodshed, though she still silently cursed the team that had left the man in such a state.

Reaching out into his mind, Amelia severed the connection between the man’s brain, his ears and his tongue, cutting off the senses the previous interrogation had left intact. It was then a mere moment’s effort to immerse the man’s mind in an endless black void and Amelia soon found herself standing before Ensign Alexander Quixote as he saw himself. A proud man of martial bearing, wearing a dress uniform with his features impeccably maintained, he was every inch the ideal Noble son.

_What is this place… Where am I… What are you doing here…?_

The man’s mind was struggling, able to form questions but without the flights of fancy created by the undamaged subconscious. He was dying, and Amelia couldn’t use the same tricks she’d used on the Duque. Instead she gripped the man before her, seizing his spectral limbs and silencing his tongue. Slowly she peeled back the shell surrounding his soul, tearing skin from flesh and muscle from bone. She ruptured organs, disassembling them to a cellular level before casting them aside. The brain went as well, what she sought was deeper than the mind. Once she had reduced his subconscious to atoms, she began to feel the slight pull of the warp. Every living thing has a soul that ties it to the warp, and Amelia began to harvest the connection of everything that made Alexander unique. Eventually, she found the memories she sought, and left the rest of his mind to rot.


	5. The Warrior's Trial

_The bolt slides forward with a satisfying thunk and I fire again, autogun rounds flying downrange into targets as they appear. They swing up at random intervals and distances and I bring each one crashing to the ground. Eight, nine, ten! I leap off the fake roof and sprint to the next set of cover, a foxhole dug into the ground. My weapon stays pointed downrange the entire time; I am being judged on discipline as much as martial skill. The moment my boots hit the ground I am firing again, more targets appearing and falling before me. Though I dare not take my eyes off the range before me, I know that my three comrades are doing the exact same thing on three identical ranges to my left and right. No one faces the Warrior’s Trial alone, and I am only one part of a larger whole. Past the raised mounds of earth collecting any rounds that miss their target a magnificent mountain valley stretches out before me; the Raptor’s Nest has been my home for the past week, and it will be for at least five weeks more…_

_The crackling fire and the sound of acoustics break me from my reverie, and I eagerly tuck into my bowl of steamy risotto, lovingly prepared by the Nest’s permanent staff. My brothers in arms sit beside me, laughing, swapping stories of the days deeds and dulling the pain of the day’s challenges with spirits. Before us a great bonfire burns ringed by Death Cultists, their skin-tight bodygloves writhing sensuously in the firelight. They dance to the accompaniment of dozens of different instruments, warrior-poets competing with each other on guitars, flutes and harmonicas. The result is a discordant mess of sounds that is rendered strangely appealing by circumstance._

_Young men in the uniforms of the Noble Houses, egged on by their fellows, will sometimes run into the circle, ducking and weaving amongst the girls who avoid their grasp with a dancer’s grace. Rarely, very rarely, one of them manages to snare a dancer, either by virtue of his own skill or finding a girl who sees potential in him and willingly slips into his grasp. The captured prey is then slung over his shoulder and carried off to the billets, to the cheers and laughter of men and women alike. The ritual keeps our people strong; weak men will be unable to catch a dancer, whilst a girl who presents too easy a target will be ignored. This is the duty of the Nobility, to ensure each generation grows stronger than the last. Outside of the Nest, marriages may be arranged for political gain, or even out of mutual love. Here, the girl will be taken to her husband’s home after the Trial, and forget all her prior allegiances; the new couple duty bound to raise the next generation of warriors._

_None of the PDF teams involve ourselves in the dance, though we are all of noble blood. In a way, we are the end product of these rituals, the warriors strong enough to be sent off world to fight across the galaxy and carve our legacy into our enemy’s skulls, rather than hope to see our children accomplish the same. My eyes are drawn to the Masters of the Hunt, who watch silently from the wings, their presence lending spiritual legitimacy to proceedings, marking it as sacred in the eyes of the Lord of Battle…_

_The valley is peaceful, its depths covered in a rolling forest. We have been traversing this forest for two days, weighed down by our packs and carrying unfamiliar weapons. We have been dropped in to the valley with eight other teams, and the same is happening in eight other valleys. The weapon in my hands is strange, it is a facsimile of my rifle, made heavier by bulky electronics that fire a small laser. We each wear vests and armour covered in discrete sensors, if the enemy ‘kills’ us then the armour releases a strong paralytic, rendering us helpless. We have already seen the effects on two teams, and we have no intention of experiencing it ourselves._

_My point man signals discretely, he has found our prey. Another PDF team is moving through the forest before us, their equipment the very mirror of our own. We do not act suddenly, but rather slowly creep towards our prey. They are bombing up their magazines in a small depression in the ground, and it is disappointingly easy to encircle them. The tranquil silence of the forest gives way to the dull chatter of blank ammunition as we let loose. Our enemy barely has time to draw their sidearms before they all collapse on the floor in a paralytic heap. We had been tracking this team for a day, waiting for just this moment, and were now one step closer to joining the Eight…_

_My squad lay in a paralysed heap around me. We were part of the Eight, inducted fully into the Warrior Lodge, and had achieved more in our lives than any other on this world, but still it wasn’t enough. I craved more, craved the chance to be called the best, to be brought before the Master in the Mountains and ascend, and yet this band of mere women were making a mockery of me, of us. We fought against them in a melee under the scrutinising eye of a Lodge Master, a demigod amongst men in ancient and powerful armour. I felt the heft of a blade in my hand, again coated with a paralytic, and weighed up the two opponents that still stood. The girls hid their faces behind iron masks depicting grinning skulls, but I could feel the mocking stares that lay beneath them. We trained for years at close quarters combat, but these damned women descended into the underhive every day and tested their skill against the scum who dwelled there. I cannot win this alone, but I refuse to go without a fight._

_These whores expect me to take the defensive, so I rush them, swinging my blade against the one on the left. She ducks, her mind doubtless reeling with countless ways to dodge the slash that would leave her paralysed and her team dishonoured. She is entirely unprepared for me to reverse my blade and plunge it past her ribs and into her heart. Again and again I stab her as she writhes on the floor in agony. They will have their victory, but they will always remember the man who took their partner. These cults are arranged along family lines, I have killed their sister or cousin, and they will always remember me whenever their family gathers. A heeled boot catches me on the chin and I am forced onto my back, the sole surviving cultist standing over me, ready to plunge her own blade into my skull until an armoured hand envelops her shoulder, holding her back. This ancient warrior, this god amongst men, who has seen more war than I ever will looks down at me and smiles, his scarred face splitting to reveal a row of teeth filed down into points. He speaks in a voice that screams of blood and battles won and lost on a thousand different worlds, it hurts my ears to even listen but I am enraptured by its sound._

_‘You were defeated by your foe, but rather than give in to your fate or collapse in moral decay you chose to make their victory as costly as possible. You will not see the Master in the Mountains, but you have earned my respect. Go, and take what you have learned here to heart.’_

The sight of this horrific figure was enough to drive Amelia from the man’s rapidly collapsing mind, blue balefire flickering around her as she withdrew her presence from his mind. Normal doctrine would have her stitch back together the prisoner’s broken mind as best she can, but there was nothing more she needed from him. She tried to stand, but her legs failed her and it took all the effort she could muster to support herself with her staff. Flavius moved from the corner of the room, where he had been standing with his rifle levelled at Amelia’s head, to offer support but she waved him off. The weakness was temporary, as her mind grew used to her own limbs again.

‘How long was I out?’ she asked offhandedly; time held little meaning inside someone’s head.

‘Fourteen hours Ma’am’ Her Sergeant replied, and Amelia began to notice the tiredness in his voice, he had clearly stood at his post for the entire duration. Amelia began to understand the degree of loyalty she now commanded amongst her followers, though she still wasn’t sure if she was worth it.

‘Get some rest for eight hours, Corporal Al’Said can take over your duties for now. Then get your team ready to move.’ 

‘Yes Ma’am.’ He replied, relief evident in his thoughts. Once he had left, Amelia took a few moments to compose herself before stepping out of the cell. She found Helena waiting for her outside, her features still hidden beneath grey robes. She did not speak, perhaps she did not feel it was her place, and so Amelia broke the expectant silence.

‘Contact Magos Zeletrass’ staff. Ask them for any reference to the “Raptor’s Nest”, it’s a special forces base built into a mountain range with eight valleys. Also, look through local legends for any reference to a “Master in the Mountains.” I need to send a report to the Inquisitor.’  
‘By your will, madam.’ The girl bowed again and left, the perfect image of deference. Amelia saw far too much of herself in that girl’s struggle to keep her head down, or, more specifically, who she had been before her recent meteoric rise.

Her cogitator whirred and groaned as it transferred the report of her findings to the Inquisitor. The machine was unwieldy, but essential in secure communications, especially as she didn’t actually know where the Inquisitor was. The message she sent consisted of all the proper greetings, followed by a report on everything she had learned of the Warrior’s Trial, as well as her recommendations for future actions. She busied herself with a written Interrogation report until an hour later, when her Cogitator let out a brief chime. She had received a message from the Inquisitor that was brief, but expanded her scope considerably.

‘Message received. Permission granted.’

A small smile played its way across Amelia’s lips as she summoned her Adjutant. The girl was through the door almost immediately, but showed no visible signs of having rushed. This was clearly the result of some secret magic known only to the Administratum.

‘Madam, the Raptor’s Nest has been located. It’s listed in the records as the private retreat of a minor noble house, but satellite imaging makes it look more like a military camp.’

Amelia smile became a wolfish grin and Helena’s mind fluttered, unnerved at her superior’s display.

‘Get us a transport from supply, then contact the Defence Force and inform them that we are requisitioning one of their regiments for an airborne assault.’

‘Madam?’ Helena was understandably taken aback, but Amelia wasn’t in the mood for delays.

‘I want us to be out of here and on route to the regiment within eight hours.’

Confusion warred with duty on Helena’s face, but duty trumps all in her eyes and she hurried off, no doubt to coordinate a hundred different things at once. The next few hours passed at a breathtaking pace; her limited office and quarters, as well as those of her team, were packed away and loaded onto the back of a long, vector-thrust transport usually used to carry drop-trooper platoons. Sergeant Flavius, his eight hours of rest only preserved by Amelia’s direct order, woke after a restful night to find a trio of menials standing over him, waiting to collect his belongings. Hasty signals were sent from the Precinct to Fort Badajoz, where an entire regiment of Iberian Cazadores had been roused from their sleep and reissued rifles. No doubt the fort was in an even greater panic than the precinct; the Inquisition, the ghost story used to frighten wayward children, was coming to their barracks without so much as a word of explanation. Flight plans were hastily scheduled with both Iberian Flight operations and the Battlecruiser that still menaced the space above the world and civilian flights along their approach vector were grounded, causing minor delays at airports worldwide. After eight hours of this chaos, a long transport ship lifted vertically out of the hanger, before shifting its engines for supersonic lateral speed.

Colonel Miguel Forjaz looked out across the airfield and saw only pandemonium. He had been roused in the dead of night by the Duty Officer, who had been almost paralytic with fright. They had received orders from the General Staff to prepare for the arrival of an agent of the Inquisition. That wasn’t strictly true, Colonel Forjaz reflected, the General Staff were currently rotting in cells; their orders had come from the office of Marshal Taimur, the Tallarn Officer who commanded the Inquisitor’s forces. Perhaps fifteen Officers in the Defence Force had ever met the man yet he already had a reputation as a terrifying monster who consumes the souls of mortal men to prolong his unnatural life. Such was the nature of the Inquisition that any rumours about them would immediately spiral out of control, and the Inquisition were coming here!

His men had grumbled when he used the Fort’s emergency broadcast systems to rouse them from their rest, but unhappiness had been replaced instantly by fear once told of their new commanders. One thousand two hundred men had shot out of their beds and into uniform, each man desperately checking the kit of the man beside him so as not to be damned by the actions of another. This frenzied attempt to ensure that no button was out of place inevitably lead to a scrambled attempt to clean the billets, as the irrational fear of the Inquisition deciding to see if their sheets were neatly folded set in. When the men emerged outside and, perhaps for the first time, truly saw the dilapidated state the fort was in another bout of mass hysteria began, and details were organised to trim back the weeds poking through the hard standing and ensuring the Officer’s Mess was in a fit state to receive Throne Agents. Just as the place was beginning to look somewhat presentable Colonel Forjaz was again interrupted by an officer, who brought an unthinkable message. 

Since the arrival of the Inquisition in orbit over Nova Iberia, all the world’s armed forces from the lowliest municipal magistrates’ enforcers to the bodyguards of the nobility had been ordered disarmed. Colonel Forjaz was expecting to be ordered to surrender facilities for use by the Inquisition, just as Special Forces command would occasionally swoop in and ‘appropriate’ his Fort. He had just received an order to rearm his men and to prepare the entire regiment for an airmobile assault; they were not to be shifted aside in favour of elite forces instead, for the first time in his thirty years in the Military, the 43rd Cazadores regiment would be going into combat. If the announcement of the Inquisitor’s arrival threw the Fort into anarchy then the order to rearm sparked a near riot of hurried activity.

The armoury doors were unlocked by the Provosts, and the long process of redistributing arms began. There was only one armoury in Fort Badajoz, and the queue to collect weapons stretched all the way to the perimeter fence. As the long line of men slowly filed through the armoury, each collecting a simple rife before proceeding to the magazine to collect boxes and boxes of brass encased cartridges, Forjaz dealt with a logistical issue of an entirely different scale. On paper the Cazadores had a hundred and twenty helicopters assigned to them, enough of the rudimentary machines to lift his men into any warzone and back, however only around half were functional, the remainder having fallen into disrepair or scavenged for parts to fix other aircraft. The fort’s only enginseer and his acolytes were working on reconsecrating some of the junked aircraft, but their rituals were simply far too lengthy. Instead, Forjaz called in every favour he had within the Planetary Air Defence Force, managing to rope in ten twin-rotored helicopters capable of carrying fifty-five troops each, if half that number sat on the floor. He even managed to gain a squadron of fixed-wing propeller aircraft, armed with air-to-ground missiles. 

It was as he was watching the aircraft approach the runway that he was interrupted for a third time, the look of weary resignation he gave his aide enough to make the man offer a brief apology before continuing. Air Traffic Control, always slow on the uptake at the best of times, had finally deigned to inform him that a transport in service to the Inquisition would be touching down in ten minutes. Only a lifetime of discipline kept the Colonel from collapsing, though he did offer an expletive loud enough to silence the fort. He looked at his men, three quarters of whom still had yet to receive arms or ammunition, whilst the remainder sat around in huddles cleaning their disassembled rifles. Those men hurriedly reassembled their weapons, haste, and their Colonel’s obvious panic, causing agonising delays through rudimentary errors. In the end, when Colonel Forjaz spotted an indistinct black shape in the distance, roughly half his men were arrayed in a parade ground formation in front of the Regimental Headquarters. The remainder were still queuing outside the armoury, each man sprinting to join the formation after receiving arms and ammunition.

The aircraft that approached was painted a dark grey, with a pitch black Inquisitorial sigil barely visible on its flanks. Colonel Forjaz thought it was coming in too high and would miss the runway until, to his amazement, the four great engines supporting the craft tilted and it descended vertically to a gentle stop one hundred meters from his formation, its rear ramp staring him down. There was a mechanical whirr as the ramp descended, then a pregnant pause before a group of figures emerged from the darkened interior.

The agents were led by a stern looking woman in a black stormcoat open to display a majestically crafted breastplate. Her sunken features silently judged the men arrayed before her from beneath fiery red hair surrounded on both sides by a nest of wiring emerging, horrifyingly, from the woman’s skull. With a start, Forjaz linked the wires, her staff and the symbol of the eye on her armour, and immediately shifted his attention to her retinue; anything to avoid thinking too loudly about the horrific witch-beast the Inquisition had sent to steal his thoughts. His eyes glossed over a girl in simple grey robes before locking on to the two soldiers flanking the psyker. Never in his thirty years of service had Forjaz seen anyone quite like the two men flanking the witch. Clad from head to toe in dark grey armour that seemed to be made of some kind of ceramic and wearing dark red fatigues of synthetic material their faces were concealed by respirator masks with baleful red eyes. They carried lasrifles of a size Forjaz had never seen before, their magazine wells connected by long wires to battery packs slung over the soldier’s backs.

Professionalism kept Forjaz from turning to compare his own men to these newcomers, but he knew that his own men would share the expression he was currently trying very hard to suppress. The Cazadores wore simple uniforms of brown cloth, made in a lower hive factory by underpaid workers. Their only armour to speak of was a simple steel helmet only rated to protect against glancing hits by conventional shrapnel. Their weapons were automatic stub rifles, and they carried one hundred and twenty rounds of brass-cased ammunition in four magazines held in simple webbing. Compared to these soldiers, his men may as well have been carrying sticks.

Burying his doubts beneath his long-practised professionalism, Forjaz stepped forward to salute the witch, who he assumed was the leader by virtue of her position at the front.

‘Mamzel, I am Colonel Miguel Forjaz, commander of the 43rd Cazadores regiment of the Nova Iberian Planetary Defence Force. I hereby formally hand over command of the 43rd, as well as elements of 227 and 130 Squadron, Planetary Air Defence Force, to you.’

The woman returned his salute with the sloppy air of the contemptuous or amateurish and reached out to shake his hand.

‘Colonel, I am Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette of His Imperial Majesty’s Most Holy Inquisition, I accept formal command of the regiment, though you will retain de facto leadership in military matters. I need you to take a mountain.’


	6. Supporting Cast

Helena stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was every inch the Administratum ideal, in that it was unadorned by any form of cosmetics, neither overly attractive nor unattractive. It was the kind of face designed to fade into the background behind greater figures. Helena held no illusions about her station, she was a facilitator for the greatness of others and any pride she had would come from achievements that others took from the opportunities she enabled. The Administratum thought of the Imperium as a great machine, and the people within as small cogs who may never understand the purpose for which they turn, but without whom the machine can never function. Her mistress was another cog, but a far larger one that spun many smaller dials.

She ran her fingers through her hair, bright blonde and flowing down to her shoulders, it was not in keeping with the spirit of the Administratum. As a rule, clerks shaved their hair; it was long, it got in the way and it was a dangerous expression of individuality that went against their core values and standards. But it was not against the standards of the Inquisition, because the standards of the Inquisition varied from Inquisitor to Inquisitor. Helena justified her frivolous locks with the argument that she may, at some as yet undetermined point in time, be required to operate covertly and that having hair is less likely to stand out in an Imperial crowd than not. In truth, Helena was simply beginning to discover the wonders of individuality, and rather liked the idea of something that separated her from the faceless Administratum she had left behind. Still, she maintained an utmost dedication to duty, and so the hair was hidden beneath the hood of her plain grey robes.

Having a mirror at all was still somewhat of a novelty; the defence force had been bending over backwards to accommodate their guests, and had given an entire wing of their Officer’s Mess over to them. For the first time in her life Helena had a room all to herself and, though it was hard to get used to sleeping without the dozen or so other menials on the Prime Agent’s staff, the sense of privacy was liberating. Tucking a leather-bound notebook and a data slate into a pouch hanging off her belt, Helena left her room and the Inquisition Enclave, as their wing had come to be known.

The Officers mess was adequate for their needs, but Helena eyed the dusty corridors and chipped paintwork with a critical eye; though her mistress would never admit such, Helena felt the dilapidation spoke poorly of the Regiment’s readiness and professionalism. Still, Helena mused, they had certainly been accommodating, as a sea of Officers parted before her. Truthfully, Helena disliked the attention she and the others were being given. Officers who, by all rights, were many times her senior stood to one side as she passed and many bowed their heads reverently. Helena lived in the background, and it was all she could do not to run at the unwanted and unwarranted stares. Still, it did mean she’d been able to cut through the bureaucratic inertia with ease, as the regiment scrambled to assist her every inquiry.

Helena paused before exiting the mess to ensure her hood was drawn as far down as possible. The hood now served a dual purpose; it continued, as it always had, to hide her face and prevent undue attention but it also now served the far more important role of blocking her sight of anything except the ground. Amelia had been born in the lower hive of a spire so large she had never bothered to learn its name; as far as she had been concerned there simply was nowhere else. As a child she had demonstrated mathematic ability, and so had been whisked away from her parents to the Administratum compound, a small walled city of only three-square kilometres. There her world had shrunk even further as she was taught the insular ways of the Administratum, and came to view the compound as the only place in the universe. Upon transferring to the Inquisition, she spent her entire time aboard the ship, never coming close to any windows, and had spent her time on Nova Iberia in the windowless confines of the Precinct-Fortress. 

Upon arriving at Fort Badajoz, she had made the mistake of looking up and had become paralysed by agoraphobia, relying on muttered recitals of the Catechisms of Faith to keep herself from collapsing. A vast expanse of blue emptiness stretched above her head and the ground spread out before her only ending when it hit the mountain walls an impossible distance away. Eventually she managed to navigate her way to the Regimental Headquarters, where the Station Commander had given over his offices to the Inquisition. Helena took up a receptionist’s desk, mercifully facing away from the uncovered window. Helena would have drawn the blinds, but the Prime Agent enjoyed having a view.

She began to thumb through transmissions sent and received in the day since they had arrived, and was pleased to see a communique from Marshal Taimur’s staff. The 43rd Cazadores were underequipped even by the standards of other PDF’s, and her mistress had tasked Helena with sourcing better equipment as fast as possible. She had passed the word on to adepts in Marshal Taimur’s own staff, and they had been scouring through their newly inherited holdings to find anything capable of hurting an Astartes. The Iberian PDF was rather unique, in that it was divided into two separate organisations. The smaller Special Forces Command received the lion’s share of funding and equipment, as well as feeding into the General Staff. The remainder of the PDF were left to settle with primitive equipment far below the expected standard on such an industrialised world; when required to contribute to the Guard the majority would go from Special Forces command, whilst PDF troopers hastily given imported Flack Armour and Lasguns would make up the rest of the tithe. The end result was a regiment with no heavy weapons whatsoever, and very little in the way of vital support staff such as qualified Enginseers.

Whatever adjutant of Marshal Taimur’s staff she had been spoken to over the vox had managed to find an armoury nearby that held weapons meant for the commandos, and had petitioned the Marshal to release those weapons for issue to the Regiment. He had agreed, transmitting access codes for the sealed warehouses. Helena now had to liaise with the Regimental Staff, and arrange for one of the Stormtroopers to accompany whatever men they sent to collect the weapons. It had been the work of hours to get to this point, and it would be hours still before it was done. Helena was running herself ragged between this, ensuring the aircraft were fuelled and ironing out the kinks in an Inquisitorial Cell that had just moved halfway across the planet. 

Her thoughts were interrupted as the Prime Agent herself passed through her office. Helena stood and bowed to the supreme authority for hundreds of miles, and received a brief nod for her efforts. If she worked hard enough then the Agent would never be aware of her struggle, or the herculean task she had placed on Helena’s head. Adjutant Brazier was not supposed to attract the attention of her betters, even praise was to be avoided, as it distracted them from their duties. Her job was to ensure her mistress could focus on higher matters, without having to worry about the work of the small cogs that kept her spinning.

Corporal Al’Said sat in the back of the transport aircraft, checking over his Hellgun and carapace armour. He was only travelling to a warehouse but life in the Guard, and then the Inquisition, had made him justifiably paranoid. Like the majority of the Inquisitor’s Stormtroopers, Qaboos Al’Said had been drawn from the remnants of the Tallarn 75th Mechanised Regiment, pressed into the service of the Inquisitior to quell the Aprior Heresy, and having remained with him since. Others, like Sergeant Flavius, were drawn from the Schola Progenium, and resented the Tallarn as much as the Tallarn resented them. Certainly, they presented a united front to the rest of the Inquisition but internally the Stormtroopers were divided between those whose experience came from combat, and those trained by the Schola Progenia.

Al’Said looked around the interior of the aircraft, his eyes resting on the platoon of men from the 43rd, each of whom was looking around the aircraft as if it were wrought by saints rather than men. Annoyingly, they looked at Al’Said’s equipment with much the same expression. They cut a rather contemptuous figure with their flimsy steel helmets and simple automatic weapons. Al’Said could not help but pity the poor figures. These men had been denied every chance to become part of something greater than themselves, the main appeal of service to the Throne. They were a force, it seemed, the Planetary Government preferred to ignore; calling upon them only to put down riots or provide disaster relief. Very few of them would find the Emperor’s service, as he had, and those that did would be cast into space inadequately prepared for the work He would demand from them. 

Tallarn was a desert world and the vast majority of its population lived their lives in tunnels beneath the surface, where every resource mattered. Water and food were strictly rationed on Tallarn and everyone had a duty to contribute to their planet and the Imperium as a whole; whether by toiling in the underground mines, sifting the sands for usable silicone or serving in the Guard every citizen of Tallarn made sure their planet earned the regular shipments of water sent by the Administratum. The waste he had seen on worlds that had so much more than his own horrified Qaboos, and this planet may have been the worst offender yet. They let brave, loyal, citizens fall by the wayside in order to preserve their own privileges, they viewed service to the Imperium as the prerogative of the Nobility, rather than the one opportunity every Imperial had to truly matter in the Emperor’s eyes.

The Pilot broadcast the five-minute warning, and Al’Said moved towards the ramp, the 43rd Logistics Officer moving to stand next to him. Like most Officers in the Throne’s service, he carried a pistol, a small semi-automatic stubber, and a sword that served as his badge of office. The Imperium held that its officers should be concerned with directing the flow of battle, and that issuing them with rifles risked them being distracted by combat with the enemy, and losing sight of their command. Technically the man outranked Al’Said by a significant margin, but elite forces were often given higher status, and his association with the Inquisition placed him as an agent of the Emperor Himself in the Officer’s eyes.

The plane shifted as its vector thrust engines directed thrust upwards, to bring them to a controlled descent. The men, unused to aircraft that weren’t limited to lateral movement, shifted unsteadily in the hold, but they were able to stand, the Acolyte of the Inquision enough motivation to keep them on their feet. The plane shuddered as it touched down, the ramp dropped and the platoon rushed out, the Stormtrooper following at an intimidating walk. The pilot, an expert at his trade, had landed the aircraft at the end of a long road not fifty metres from the armoury’s doors, there being no airstrip on the base.

The guards manning the gate, disarmed by Inquisitorial order, could do nothing as the platoon of men entered the facility, the black clad terror at their head handing a paper through the window that carried higher authority than either of the two men had ever seen before or since. They watched as the man went up to the Armoury building that they, not being of any particular importance, had never been allowed inside. He imputed a code into the great iron doors and they slid aside with the horrific screeching of tortured metal, revealing a room laden with weapons more advanced than the two guards had ever seen.

Al’Said poured over the crated melta guns approvingly; he had always liked the melta, though it burned through precious oxygen far too quickly for use on Tallarn. He felt there was a wondrous simplicity to the weapon; the natural evolution of a kid with an aerosol can and a match. More importantly, the weapons would be enough to give a Traitor Marine pause, if the Cazadores could get close enough to use them. There were also melta bombs hanging from long racks along the length of one of the walls. Meant for breaching doors or static fortifications the suicidal could run up to an enemy tank and slam one on its side. Whilst there was theoretically enough time to clear the blast area before it detonated, it was still a job for only the most devout or desperate. As the platoon loaded the crated weapons onto the waiting plane, Al’Said reflected that they may very well soon be desperate enough to try.

Sergeant Marcus Flavius stood atop a raised platform overlooking the airfield; what had once been a graveyard of aircraft now filled with every serviceable helicopter in the region. The curious aircraft relied on the flow of air over a spinning rotor to stay flying and as such were exclusively used by Planetary Defence Forces, who seldom had to worry about deploying from orbit. They were joined a small squadron of propeller planes, whose dumb-fire missiles had been replaced by more advanced models ‘liberated’ from a nearby armoury. 

He stood just behind Colonel Forjaz, and they were both overlooking the entire 43rd; one thousand two hundred men arrayed in ranks before them. Sergeant Flavius decided he liked Forjaz, the man was a career soldier, and had risen as highly in the Iberian PDF as was possible without noble blood. Though he naturally couldn’t match the progeny of the Schola Progenia, he was still one of the best products of the civilian education system Marcus had seen. A grey-haired man nearing the end of his career he had, despite never having seen combat, bent over backwards to ensure his Cazadores were fit to fight. Flavius had heard rumours he had called in every favour he was owed to prepare for the assault, and his admiration for the man had only increased as a result.

Flavius also stood behind the Prime Agent, who had gracefully left the Colonel the spotlight. Though she wasn’t a product of the Schola, she was a Psyker, and as such had been as much a ward of the State as Marcus had been. Unlike him, she had learned her trade on Holy Terra itself and, if barrack rumours about psykers were to be believed, had been brought before the Emperor himself to be judged. That unique vetting elevated her beyond question in Flavius’ eyes. It was a pity, he thought, that she had become more distant since ascending to her new title. In a way he missed the scared girl who had liquified a man’s brain in the tunnels of the Precinct, but he understood the bonds of duty that now existed between them.

The regiment had been assembled to be briefed on their mission, before they deployed the next morning. They were listening with rapt attention, ready to finally learn the task that had brought them the attentions of the Inquisition, and uprooted them from their uneventful lives. As the Colonel stepped up to the platform a cry came up from the Regimental Sergeant Major.

‘General Salute! Present Arms!’ 

As one, the regiment brought up their rifles, whilst the officers raised their swords in salute. Whatever else could be said about the quality of the Regiment, they were certainly well drilled.  
‘At ease.’ Colonel Forjaz began, followed by another sharp cacophony as arms were lowered.

‘For the past twenty-four hours, you have worked harder than ever before. You have brought us out of the slow decline the 43rd has been slipping into for a very long time now. Your blades, dulled by inaction, are sharp once again and we are ready to strike against our foe.’

‘You have done this, because our world has suddenly got a lot larger. Agents of the Holy Inquisition have graced us with their presence and honoured us with a task of utmost importance.’

‘In the mountains, not a hundred miles from where we now stand, foul rituals have been conducted. For thousands of years, elements of our society have gone into these mountains on a pilgrimage in service of foul gods. For thousands of years men and women who are supposed to be the best of us, have gone into these mountains to test themselves and earn dark favours.’

‘For thousands of years this heresy has stained our planet, and our people, in the eyes of the Emperor. For thousands of years our own nobility has worked against us, secreting Commandos off into the armies of renegades and heretic despots.’

‘I know you’ve heard the arguments of the nobility, that we must look to our own, rather than the Imperium. I know this, because I’ve heard the arguments myself. Some of you may even be bound to noble families through ancient lines of servants. In a way, they’re right.’

‘The nobility doesn’t need the Imperium, but we do. The nobility doesn’t work in our mines or factories, exporting steel to a hundred different worlds, but we do. The nobility doesn’t live inside the spires, where the only air is filtered through the divine machines of the Tech-Priesthood of Mars, but we do! The nobility doesn’t need the grain ration, imported from dozens of worlds, to feed them, but we do! The Imperium is something greater than any of us, it is our faith and the source of our duty. We feed it, because it feeds us.’

‘Now the Imperium is asking us to take a mountain. The Raptor’s Nest is perched atop a natural plateau at the centre of the mountains to our south, surrounded by smaller forts on the other peaks. The Inquisition wants the main base intact, so fighting there will be purely an infantry affair. The mountain peaks, on the other hand, will be hit by our aircraft, as well as by limited orbital bombardment. The fighting will be hard, harder than any training we’ve undergone, but we will succeed. The Emperor himself watches over our deeds and we will not fail him!’

The regiment cheered; any doubts now banished from their mind. The Colonel would make a good political officer, Flavius thought to himself.

‘Now, Sergeant Flavius of the Inquisition will take you through what we will face.’

Flavius stepped up to the lectern and tried to keep the fear off his face. He still wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to tell this backwater militia that they may have to fight Astartes.


	7. Air Assault

It was the break of dawn; the fresh light of the sun slowly pooled through the mountain range, squeezing past ancient formations of rock and casting the gentle red glow of dawn through a weave of titanic shadows. From the deep forests of the valley below birds began to sing, announcing the dawn as surely as the buglers in the raptor’s nest, the camp itself shadowed by the immense mountain it lay before. The soldiers, most wrapped only in a towel as they wandered to the shower blocks, were suddenly bathed in a sickly red light. The second peak, one that lay beyond the valley some distance westwards of the camp, was now host to a pillar of fire, that stretched into the heavens before becoming indistinct through distance. The pillar was completely silent, many only noticed it once the warmth of its light reached them. The Raptors Nest and the valley below, which mere moments ago had been shrouded in darkness, were now illuminated with an intensity that rivalled the rising sun.

The pillar shifted, and began carving its way across the mountainside. It burned through bunkers and flack-towers, designed to hold off an army, with contemptuous ease; the souls within instantly vaporised in the blast. Inside the mountain, in a network of tunnels host to the peak’s garrison, men were boiled alive as the intense heat vaporised the liquid within their bodies. In small pillboxes near the base of the mountain, soldiers trained to improvise, adapt and overcome any challenge could only look in mute horror as a tsunami of molten rock burst out of the trenches burned by the beam, burying them alive even as they melted. The flow of lava, indifferent to any barrier man could build, poured into the verdant forest below, beginning a catastrophic fire. 

The birds of the forest fled the canopy simultaneously, thousands of animals taking to the skies. Those without wings fled on four legs to the mountain paths, ineffectually climbing against the rock. Eventually, the lance burned its way through to the mountain’s munition storage, slicing through lascannon batteries and massed shells. The soldiers in the Raptor’s Nest clutched their ears to their head as the mountain’s peak was rent asunder in the blast, debris pouting into the burning valley to join the magma. A pillar of flame shot a kilometre into the sky before being replaced by rising smoke and ash. Only the most stalwart of the camp’s defenders were left in any state to notice the flock of aircraft approaching along the now unguarded flight path.

One hundred and thirty kilometres above the smouldering remains, Lieutenant Sallust of the Silent Observer shut down the Lance, the red rune dimming before returning to the same green colour as fifteen others on his console. The bridge took no notice, occupied in the countless other duties involved in coordinating the Inquisition’s deployments. Sallust typed up an after-action report, his part in the conflict done, and sent it on to the Captain, to be read at his leisure. No longer outlined by the Lance’s red glow, the Black Ship faded back into the emptiness of the void.

Amelia stood behind the pilots of the vector thrust transport, enraptured by the thick pillar of acrid black smoke that lay where a mountain had once been. The two aircrew wore tinted visors, but Amelia had witnessed the Lance fire with her naked eye, and she blinked away the spots from that unwise decision. She thought the sight before her was strangely beautiful, almost divine; something that had stood for millions of years laid barren by human strength, the ultimate proof of man’s dominion over the galaxy. The sounds of hundreds of rotors drew her attention back to the fleet of aircraft arrayed before her. Amelia’s plane was at the centre of four formations of helicopters, two clusters of aircraft arrayed ahead of her, arranged into multiple squadrons of nine aircraft, most of which were armed with rockets or heavy stubbers. Behind her were the bulk-lift helicopters, they were arrayed in two long lines to reinforce the positions seized by the first group. She watched as a squadron of nine propeller planes roared overhead; ground attack aircraft moving to keep the enemy’s head down for the first landing. Her own plane was easily able to outpace them, but its engines were tilted upwards, the pilots burning through fuel to match pace with the rotary aircraft.

The first two groups veered left and right to avoid the pillar of smoke, their engines unable to cope in the ash, whilst Amelia’s advanced aircraft carried on forwards, until the windows were filled with a grey mass. The transport was buffeted by rising currents of hot air, yawing violently as it was caught in the swirling currents of ash and smoke. The pilots struggled with the controls, fighting an intense battle against the air itself and flying by instruments as all they could see was an endless void. After what felt like an eternity, the cockpit was again filled with the light of the rising sun, and Amelia saw a hell of a different kind.

The first of the assault groups was just reaching the drop zone, rockets and stub rounds streaming out of the lead aircraft and bursting in and amongst the prefabricated buildings of the camp. From this high up they look more like ants than men, Amelia remarked to herself as she watched the defenders scatter for cover. The more stalwart of the defenders simply ignored the barrage, determined to hold their post at any cost, and Amleia could only watch in mute horror as a battery of lascannons flashed, scything through two of her helicopters. One was hit in the rotors but flew on, even as globules of molten steel flew from the damaged blades. Another beam sliced through the cockpit of the second helicopter and carved upwards to the engine block. Consumed by fire, the aircraft spun out of control and burning men leapt from the sides in a suicidal effort to escape the flames. Suddenly, the battery was silenced by a strike from above as the propeller planes launched a missile in and amongst the gun crews, the frag from the blast scything them apart.

The first helicopter landed, its human cargo leaping from the sides before its wheels had touched the ground. Some men, reluctant to leave, were shoved out by the aircrew, the helicopter leaving the second its cargo was clear. The first man out, a Second Lieutenant who had volunteered to lead the Forlorn Hope, drew his sword and charged the enemy positions, trusting that his platoon would follow. The men on the ground were cut off from all avenues of retreat, and the enemy, though shocked by the sudden attack, were true professionals and had set up behind the Nest’s sandbag walls. To hunker down and outshoot such a position was suicidal from such an exposed landing zone, and so the Cazadores charged forwards, bayonets bared, determined to take the walls or die in the attempt. The Lieutenant was cut down almost immediately, his sword marking him as an obvious target, but his men did not falter. After all, there was nowhere else for them to go. Though the Forlorn Hope lost over two thirds of their men in that first assault, enough made it to the walls to ensure that the defenders were unable to stop another platoon landing as the next helicopters cycled through.

Shock can only work for so long, however, and the defenders soon rallied, grabbing every weapon that could hit an aircraft. The helicopters were at their most vulnerable when landing and taking off; the near stationary targets made easy prey for the renegade gunnery crews, and close to a dozen aircraft were destroyed, whilst only a rare few made it away unscathed. Inevitably, a round from a heavy bolter caught an approaching aircraft just below the rotor. The bolt detonated inside the control column and the rotors broke free, whirling off into the jungle below. Worse still, the chassis collided with the landing zone before spilling out bodies and chunks of twisted metal. Where three helicopters had been able to land there was now only room for two, and the increased time in the air placed the crews at greater risk. 

On the ground, the sandbagged walls now held Imperial infantry, the remains of the first few platoons holding the walls whilst junior officers led fresh platoons over the walls to try and gain ground. The men were well drilled and the stress of combat brought their training to the fore; they advanced in fire teams, one team firing whilst the other advances, The Lieutenants directed the positioning of their platoons, one section advancing, the second providing enfilade fire whilst the third held back, ready to take over the advance once the first had exhausted itself. The writers of the Tactica Imperialis doctrine for infantry fire and manoeuvre would have been proud, but the men had never before seen combat and it showed. Where the enemy were flexible, darting from cover to cover and landing hits with every shot they fired, the Imperials were rigid, years of blank fire drills having failed to teach them the true value of cover, or the need to maintain accurate fire. The only advantage the Imperials had was numbers, and this advantage was growing smaller and smaller as the bottleneck at the landing zone got worse.

Amelia tore herself away from the chaos unfolding before her; it was time she committed herself to the fight. The cockpit was raised above the hold by a metal staircase, and as Amelia stepped down, she felt the passenger’s eyes on her. An entire company of Cazadores was crammed into the aircraft, each man a messy collection of fears; fear of the enemy, fear of the unknown and fear that they would prove unworthy in some way. Amelia’s heart sunk as she felt the way they looked at her, how hope flared in their minds as they beheld this agent of the throne, this powerful witch who would use her fell sorcery to see them through. Their simple optimism terrified Amelia more than anything she had seen through the cockpit, and she felt more out of place than ever before. She made her way to the tail of the aircraft, squeezing past the assembled ranks, before coming to her own guards; her two stormtroopers lead a squad of Arbites, who looked at her with a reverence that pained her. Like the PDF, these men were fearful, more used to quelling riots or raiding crime lords than open warfare, but they were much better trained to hide it. It helped that their eyes were hidden behind visors, the occasional clenched jaw the only physical sign of their fear. The stormtroopers were naturally approaching events with a steely detached attitude, they had been through this many times before. Amelia envied them their carapace armour, with its full helmet, she constantly fought to keep her crippling dread from showing on her face. She wasn’t a follower any more, seeking comfort in a leader’s stern expression, now there were others looking to her as the example to follow.

The aircraft shook as the loadmaster opened up with its twin autocannons before it violently jerked as it hit the landing zone. The ramp at the rear of the aircraft dropped immediately, and she rushed out as the sounds of rounds pinging off steel filled the hold, drowned out as the roar of the engines rushed in through the hatch. She ran from the aircraft as it swiftly lifted upwards, vector thrust engines straining to bring it airborne as fast as possible. A bright red beam played across the base of the aircraft, but it was able to turn its colossal bulk and rocket off, its mission done. The air was filled with smoke and blood, and Amelia gagged as the scent of burned flesh hit her. Smouldering corpses dotted the drop zone, wounds cauterised by lasfire or burned up in the crash. Men with faces blackened by soot ran past her, bringing screaming casualties behind the relative safety of the sandbag wall.

Amelia spotted Colonel Forjaz standing beneath a section of sandbag wall. He stood over a radio operator, relaying information between units over a set he wore on his back. A small group of Officers and runners surrounded him, and they parted Amelia approached. Forjaz was wiping blood from a gash above his right eye whilst a medic tried to hold the Colonel’s attention long enough to apply a bandage. The Colonel near shoved the man away, directing him towards the other wounded before turning to greet Amelia. His eyes were wild with anticipation, and Amelia realised that he had become enraptured by the battle, as if it justified his life spent in service to the Planetary Defence Force.

‘Mamzel! Glad to see you made it down safely!’ Amelia liked being called mamzel, the word carried aristocratic airs that she preferred over the more common ‘madam’

‘Likewise, Colonel. How do we stand?’ Amelia had to fight to remain professional, to keep her voice below a terrified scream.

‘Heavy casualties. We expected that, though it pains me to say it. We’ve managed to gain a lot of ground, thanks to your show with the mountain, but the heretics have reorganised. We’re meeting stiff resistance along our entire front.’

He looked at her expectantly, as if he believed she had a plan in mind. Amelia had never faced battle of any kind, except the brief skirmish in the precinct, and decided to hand off the decision making to the professionals.

‘I trust you have a plan Colonel.’

Relief lit up the Colonel’s eyes and Amelia realised she had mischaracterised him. Forjaz was not a noble, and consequently had lived his life knowing that, no matter how much of an expert he may be, some rank amateur with a title could always come along and order him about. He had been terrified that a girl half his age was coming to steal the command he clearly relished.

‘Naturally, Mamzel.’ He gestured to a satellite photo of the camp the Silent Observer had sent them. ‘Our forces were able to advance further on the left side of camp before meeting resistance, I propose we focus our offensive on that left side, and turn the enemy lines. If we can advance far enough, we turn right and hit the enemy from the side. I need a group to act as a spearhead. I humbly request you and your men lead that group, mamzel.’

What he was suggesting would have Amelia run headlong into the enemy, but without her powers and her elite soldiers the battle would surely be lost. Amelia ignored the piteous, cowardly, voices within her that said to send others in her place. One thousand two hundred men were here facing their deaths on her order, men who would otherwise have lived out their lives in peace. In a way, she had denied them the life she had often dreamed of, one free of duty or pain, and dragged them down in service of her own ambitions, her own curiosity! She would rather face death in battle than face herself in the mirror if she let these men fight without her,

‘Alright Colonel, show me the way.’

The headquarters of the Raptor’s Nest was built from weighty ferrocrete ribbed with steel and was old enough to remember the colonists who first walked the mountains of Nova Iberia, fifteen thousand years ago. It was said that, if one was to tear away the plateau, the building would be revealed as merely the top of a mighty ziggurat, and that hidden passages ran below the more commonly used offices of the floors above ground. In these ancient rooms, two robed figures stood in animated conversation before a great altar laden with shamanistic fetishes. 

‘The lesser peak has been destroyed, and the forces of the corpse emperor are at our gates.’

‘I understood the nobility were keeping them occupied?’

‘They are. It appears we face a regiment of Cazadores.’ The word was punctuated by a contemptuous snort, ‘Only one of their aircraft bore Malcador’s pillar.’

‘What of the flock?’ 

‘They initially succumbed to shock, but recovered and are now holding position. The battle is at a stalemate; they lack the skill to break our men but we lack the skill to push them back.’

‘We teeter on a knifes edge, the slightest shift in the balance of power enough to send the entire edifice crashing down. Go, lend your strength to the faithful. I will remain here and see to spiritual matters.

‘Yes, Brother-Sergeant.’


	8. The Raptor's Nest

Black smoke seeped out of burning huts, pouring into the clear blue sky from a dozen smouldering billets. Charred bodies lay where they fell whilst pitiful figures clawed out their last breath through ash-filled lungs, crawling aimlessly along the scorched earth. Platoons of brown-uniformed soldiers moved ever onwards, the smoke clawing at their eyes and lungs and sending them into fits of clammy coughs. Most ignored the burnt figures, confusing them for corpses or ignoring them entirely, focused on the task to come. Some men looked down in revulsion, struggling to keep their head, whilst others paused with tears in their eyes. All were quickly hurried on by sergeants, directed back into their columns and onwards towards the enemy.

Soon, another group passed this macabre tableau; led by a woman in a flowing stormcoat they moved with professional detachment, utterly ignoring the grizzly remains. They were an eclectic group of Arbites and Soldiers, led by the psyker and flanked by two stormtroopers in beetle-like armour whose glowing red eyes scanned through the rubble for any remaining threats. The sounds of machinery lay behind them, the deafening noise of rotor aircraft taking off and landing, whilst the crack of rifle fire lay to their front. As they marched ever onwards, they were passed by a steady stream of walking wounded; men who had lost limbs or taken glancing hits hobbled along, supported by the man next to them and on pure adrenaline. They were a sorry sight, but each man stood a little straighter as he passed the agents of the throne.

Amelia’s mind was racing; fear gnawed at her, amplified by the steady stream of dead. The Cazadores had bled hard to reach even this point, and now they would be looking to her to break the enemy lines. As she took in the sight of her soldiers, in their cloth uniforms and steel helmets, she found herself comparing them unfavourably to the advanced weaponry of their foe. She looked up, and saw the three-story ziggurat that housed the camp’s headquarters rising up before her. An imposing edifice of stone amidst a forest of prefabricated buildings it lay at the heart of the camp, whatever secrets the Raptor’s Nest held would be found there.

The enemy had dug themselves in, a lifetime of training making itself known in successive lines of hastily built fortifications behind which lay alleys that concealed hidden strike teams, waiting to ambush the Cazadores as they passed. The only advantage the PDF had was that very few of the enemy were trained in open warfare; most of the enemy were house guards, who held ceremonial roles whilst engaging in covert raids on rivals, or Death Cultists, who excelled in the tight confines of vertical hive cities, but whose black synthskin and delicate weaponry simply made them a target a long range. Only the enemy PDF Kill Teams were wholly prepared for this attack, and they seemed to have been given the role of officers, coordinating the defence.

The sounds of battle grew louder and louder until Amelia rounded a corner and saw a makeshift command post laid out amidst a mess hall. A nest of radio equipment had been established amidst overturned tables, and a small group of officers and runners streamed in and out of the building, relaying orders to the units in combat. At the centre of this flow of people was a major in a well-maintained uniform, hunched over a table upon which a map lay. All activity in the room ceased when Amelia entered, until a gesture from her sent them all scurrying back to their tasks. The Major saluted Amelia as she approached, before demonstrating their plan of attack on the paper map. Amelia would have dearly liked to wait in this building a while, to muster up her courage, but she was needed on the front and every moment she idled the more soldiers would die for her ambition. She left the headquarters, turning to see the company that had followed her from the landing grounds. A hundred and twenty soldiers, plus eight Arbites and her two trusted stormtroopers, they watched her with expectant eyes, ready to follow her as she struck at the heart of the enemy.

Huddled behind dozens of cabins and innumerable sandbags, the 2nd Battalion, 43rd Cazadores waited for the signal. They had pushed further into the camp than their counterparts in the 1st Battalion, who held positions on the other side of camp, and as such they were stretched thinner. Still they outnumbered their enemies, who lay behind similar cover around the sides of buildings, or down one of the Nest’s main thoroughfares. Both sides lay still, taking shots at anyone foolish enough to expose themselves or, for those whose weapons could be recharged, firing simply to keep the opposition in cover. The Cazadores watched in disinterested silence as platoons of men moved past them, reinforcements from the landing grounds come to push the offensive, then watched with rapt attention as the Throne Agents passed them by. They stared in open admiration at these off-worlders bedecked in intricate technology, and bowed their heads in respect at their leader, her fiery red hair catching the sun.

Shrill whistles sounded along the line, as the attack began. The men had been standing alert for some time now, clutching their rifles tight in their hands and bracing themselves ready to charge. With the whistles came smoke pouring out of canisters across the enemy lines, canisters launched from mortars or thrown forwards by infantry. Through this haze a great roar sounded as men poured out, following the flash of their officers’ swords. Most met a wall of lasfire as the defenders fired aimlessly into the smoke, the tight avenues of the camp guiding their shots, and men fell in their droves, those following them clambering over their bodies desperate to reach the next set of cover. Once their they hunkered down, the will to fight having fled them entirely.

At the furthermost edge of the advance, where the smoke had not yet reached, soldiers from the Nobility hunkered down behind overturned lockers and sandbags, training their eager eyes down the road in preparation of the enemy’s advance. As the first wisps of smoke curled into their sight the first man fell. His comrades could only watch in horror as an ethereal blade coated in blood appeared out of his neck, as if some phantom had stabbed him. As comprehension dawned, they saw the blade shimmer into existence. It was a long sword a meter long, held by a ghostly woman whose long coat and red hair danced amidst psychic wind. Her collar was framed by blue balefire and her eyes were glowing the warm blue of a gas burning stove. As the energy surrounding her faded, her companions, now clear to see, drove bayonets and shock mauls into the other defenders until only loyalists were left standing.

Amelia withdrew her sword, trying not to flinch at the sickening sound of steel against bone, and wiped the blood off on the dead man’s scarlet coat. Ignoring her gruesome surroundings, Amelia spoke quickly into her earpiece before turning to advance further into the camp. Some fifty meters back, the Major assigned to her command raised his sword and, with two quick chopping motions, set his men into motion. Two companies of Cazadores advanced in utter silence, a hundred and forty men set loose behind enemy lines. Eagerness, and the sounds of gunfire further down the line, spurred them into motion; every one of them knew that they were the only hope the diversionary force had of surviving their doomed attack.

Amelia and her advance force, her stormtroopers and arbitrators, advanced ahead of the main group at a steady pace, her psychic powers warning them of the enemy that lay ahead. Through this foreknowledge, the assault team were able to sneak up on the next enemy position entirely undetected. A team of death cultists sat in a circle atop tins of ammunition, each had another open crate beside her and they worked ceaselessly with autogun rounds, loading the caseless ammunition into magazines before handing them off to a runner, who would bring the resupply up to the men on the defensive positions, and bring the empties back. The cultists own weapons, delicate needlers and slender blades, were ill suited to mass assaults and lay unused by their side. Should the Imperium break through, they would take up those weapons and form a guerrilla force. 

Amelia paused beneath the raised struts of a prefabricated building, watching the cultists at work. Eventually, she made up her mind, and sent her squad to the side of the building, ready to act when she gave the word. Gathering up her power, Amelia reached out to one of the cultists, a girl in her late teens with mousy brown hair, who wore decorative pauldrons formed from two human skulls. Slowly she seized control of the girl’s muscles, using the routine formed by loading magazines to disguise her efforts, making the girl think her actions were her own. Once she had enough influence to control the girl’s facial features, Amelia dropped her hand to the ground, reaching for her needle pistol whilst suppressing the flash of fear emanating from the girl’s mind. She quickly drew up the pistol, keeping them movement as discreet as possible while using muscle memory to disengage the safety and fire in one fluid motion. A silent, invisible beam burned through the skull-shaped mask of the cultist opposite in an instant, propelling a delicate needle of crystallised toxin into her skull, where it dissolved amidst the brain fluid. In an instant, Amelia had done the same to another cultist, and she felt despair radiating from her puppet. These are sisters, Amelia realised with a start. She had just forced this girl to kill two of her older siblings.

That moment’s hesitation gave the third sister time to realise something was wrong and she leapt atop Amelia’s puppet, pinning her to the ground even as the other two slumped to the floor, the toxins having scrambled their brains. Sergeant Flavius and his men took this as their signal, storming into the clearing before eviscerating the remaining cultists with lasbeams and bolt shells. The Arbites swept throughout the space, securing it as if they were on a narcotic bust, before hunkering down at the alley’s entrances, keeping their bolters pointed downrange towards their foes. As each runner came into the clearing looking for ammunition, they were seized by waiting arbitrators and summarily executed by the two stormtroopers.

Amelia sat atop a crate of ammo, surveying her handiwork. The eyes of the girl she had puppeted stared up at her, accusing even in death, and she considered reaching down to close them before dismissing the thought. After what felt like an eternity, the first of the Cazadores detachment arrived, and were directed to the enemy lines. Amelia watched in silence as the men hurried by, before her attention was again drawn to the ziggurat. It seemed as if the structure was visible from any point in the camp, and Amelia couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease as she looked at it, similar to the unnatural wrongness that came from those Imperial servants who had preserved their own life through Juventat treatments, but magnified a thousandfold. There was something ancient in that building.

Across the length of their defensive line, the members of the Warrior Lodge found themselves surrounded. PDF kill teams firing lasguns with professional detachment as they watched the enemy throw themselves into their fire found themselves raked from behind by bullets, the force of the impact on their flack armour winding them, before successive rounds drove the armour apart. Soldiers from a dozen noble houses found themselves faced by enemies on both sides and with no ammunition left to use. Death cultists, caught unawares and under the cold light of day found their lithe black bodysuits merely made them an easier target whilst their slow needle pistols were outmatched by force of numbers. The sound of cheering rang out up and down the line as the advance companies met with the battered remains of the rest of their companion, their losses temporarily forgotten as they celebrated this small victory. On the other side of the flank, men who had been unable to gain any ground found their way suddenly cleared as the enemy pulled back to positions closer to the ziggurat.

The 43rd began their uneasy advance through the camp, men pacing forward slowly in an extended line that covered the length of the entire camp. Men checked each building as they passed it. Every now and then startled shots would ring out as the teams ran into a nest of cultists laying in ambush only to be replaced by the crackling of flames as the zealots were burned out of their holes, either dying in flames or to the shots of encircling troops. Inch by painstaking inch the Cazadores advanced until they were standing almost in the shadow of the ziggurat. Weary men looked to each other for support, preparing for one last push that would see them to victory.

Amelia advanced with the regimental headquarters, Colonel Forjaz engulfed in radio communications to her right, and stared up at the ziggurat before her. The aged mind had not faded, indeed it seemed as if it was stronger now than before. Suddenly, the sharp crack of bolt rounds snapped her out of her fugue, and she saw the Colonel’s face pale as panicked reports reached his ears. Amelia caught snippets from the air, ‘it’s a monster…’ ‘we can’t hold…’ ‘Emperor forsaken us…’ ‘Astartes!’ That last word was shouted from the lips of the communications officer, who looked about ready to die.

Colonel Forjaz and the rest of the staff looked as if they were about to turn tail and run at the revelation. The man stood stock still whilst dozens of Officers pleaded with him for order, for directions, for anything. Amelia reached out with her mind to cool his flaring emotions, restoring his frayed nerves and trying to bring back the hardened professional who had brought them this far, who had taken his regiment from nothing and turned them into a first-rate fighting force. She silenced the braying officers and willed them to take a step back, giving the Colonel the space, he needed to plan.

It took him a few seconds before he turned to face the expectant crowd. His countenance was ashen, but there was determination in his eyes.

‘Fourth company is to continue engaging the Astartes, they are to buy us as much time as they can. All other companies are to dispatch their melta teams to the location of first company, second battalion. Mamzel, I request that you lead first company against the foe, use your abilities to get the melta teams as close as you can and we may still stand a chance against this thing.’

It was a dangerous plan, Amelai thought, a deadly one. Fourth company were dead already, there was no way they could face an Astartes, and everyone there knew more companies would have to be sent to keep holding the monster. Amelia was afraid. Warp, she was terrified. The Astartes were death incarnate, everyone knew that. Still, she had not come this far only to fail now, and the concentrated melta fire of the entire regiment might just be enough to do it. Amelia shook the Colonel’s hand, before marching off to face the angel of death,

Screams filled the air as Amelia advanced, mixed in with the sharp cracks of rifle fire and the meaty bursting of bolt rounds in flesh. Before her marched twelve men carrying melta guns, slowly pacing forward in an extended line, while another twelve followed in her wake. The men were terrified, and Amelia had to constantly work to keep them from running away. It was far subtler than the puppetry she had used on the cultist, but the right balance of emotions can turn fear into grim determination, and warp faint hope into courage. These men would not run before they met the enemy, though what happens in combat is another matter entirely.

The sounds of battle grew into a cacophony until Sergeant Flavius, who lead their column, dropped onto one knee and signalled to the to do the same. Amelia dashed forwards as quietly as she could, before kneeling beside her sworn soldier.

‘It’s around this corner, don’t think it saw me. That monster is chewing through our men, doesn’t look like fourth company’s had any effect.’

Amelia nodded before beckoning over Corporal Al’Said, who ran with a silence and grace that seemed impossible for someone so heavily armoured.

‘Corporal, stay here with the reserves and half the Arbites, the remainder will come with me out into the open. It’s the same trick we’ve pulled before, I’ll blind him then we strike. Understood?’

The pair nodded their mute acceptance before moving off to their posts. Amelia reached out to the Marine’s senses and blocked them from his vision. Soon a terrified line of troopers walked out into the square that lay before the ziggurat, and Amelia saw her foe for the first time. The titanic figure stood at the centre of the square whilst innumerable rounds pinged off his armour. He cut an almost contemptuous figure; he knew that his foes pathetic arsenal couldn’t harm him and so he stood with no regard for cover, pausing to send the occasional lazy brace of shells from a colossal heavy bolter. Each volley tore through the surrounding structures and thin red mists flowed out of the holes from where his shells burst within flesh. Each volley was matched by screams, or merely meaty thuds as his rounds met their targets. Not a single round missed.

The meltas moved closer, limited by the range of their weapon, and soon they could clearly see the monster’s armour. His rust red plate was a pale mockery of the armour that adorned statues across the Imperium, angular where it was smooth and inlaid with silver symbols that hurt the eyes to look at. An eight-pointed star surrounding a human skull on his chest piece, another on his left pauldron whilst his right bore a demonic visage in black metal, surrounded by flames set in polished gold. His helmet bore the likeness of an ancient warrior, raised pieces of metal creating the impression of a Corinthian helm like those worn on the Aegean colony worlds. Two horns of animal bone framed the helmet, curving down to end just below the chin.

Amelia felt the ground rush towards her as Sergeant Flavius knocked her aside, the two of them ending up on the ground just in time to see the monster turn with a grace that belied his enormous size, raking their line with bolt rounds that detonated in and amongst the melta operators. One round carried on through the torso to strike at the backpack that held the weapon’s fluid. Six men were engulfed in an explosion of atomic fire and the flames played over Amelia, shielded by Flavius who had fallen on top of her. Some men managed to fire off a few scant bursts of flame, and these streams played briefly across the marine’s armour before dying with their wielder. The armour glowed where it had been hit, but the weapons inly seemed to cause damage to the joints of the armour, molten metal fusing them together. Amelia lay helpless with Flavius on top of her, the glowing eyes of his helmet meeting her own, as if willing her to silence.

Amelia began to feel warm liquid seeping past the gaps in her breastplate and began to look into Flavius’ eyes with horror. She could feel him dying, centimetres away from her, she could feel the agony of the bolt round that had pierced his armour and detonated within, she felt the blood leave his body through the entry wound even before it pooled onto her, she felt the searing pain from the atomic fire that had engulfed his back even as it fused his spine together. She could even feel each individual synapse in his brain fade as the flow of blood was cut. She looked away, and stared at the monster as he tried to wipe molten metal from his visor like it was rainwater, before giving up and unclasping his helm.

She had been expecting his face to be a rictus of rage and perverse bloodlust, she wanted something to explain the sick thrill with which he seemed to cut apart her men, which had killed the only person in the Inquisition she had once viewed as a friend. Instead his face was utterly emotionless, holding an air of professional detachment that matched the emotions she had seen in Flavius beneath the precinct. Only the eight-pointed star carved into his forehead divided them.

Sanctioned Psykers must always balance their emotions, to keep them from succumbing to demonic influence or losing control of their powers. This is often achieved through the use of a limiter that keeps the brain from experiencing emotion above a certain level. Since her promotion, Amelia had relished the feeling of feeling by keeping the limiter off. It meant the only barrier to her emotions was herself, but she believed that she was capable of fending it off. Now, however, she gave in to the niggling voices that had been crying out at her, all her fear, all her sorrow and all her rage.

Blue balefire burned around her as she glared at the monstrous marine. She leapt into his mind, his ageless and foreign nature only increasing her rage, and the amount of power she drew from the warp. She seized control of his spine in a titanic battle that, to the untrained eye, would have resembled some fit or seizure. Eventually, she won the battle and overcame the arcane blocks implemented during the marine’s creation, leaving him standing stock still amidst the burned wreckage of the raptor’s nest. Corporal Al’Said and the remaining melta teams rushed out, bathing the marine in pillars of fire. It was too slow, Amelia’s thoughts came distantly as if through a great haze, they were burning her alive. She drew the marine’s immense combat knife from where it lay sheathed on his belt, reversed the blade, and drew it inwards into her skull.

Automated safeties nestled amidst Amelia’s psychic hood kicked in, injecting her with paralytics and slowly disabling her higher brain functions. Amelia slipped backwards and fell into a deep sleep, soaked in someone else’s blood.


	9. Soul-Bound

She floated amidst an empty void. There was no colour, no sound, simply a soul suspended in place. Barely sapient, this soul writhed and screamed in silent horror as it fought against the boundaries of its prison. A shapeless form, it struggled against invisible chains that held her in place, great weights that surrounded and pierced the soul, without damaging its form. She raged against this confinement, her soul writhing and contorting into myriad forms but never breaking her ethereal bonds. Time held no meaning in this place, and so she raged for an eternity, an infinite battle occurring amidst the blink of an eye and yet stretched out across all existence, in a battlefield where there was no beginning or end. There just was. She could feel other things pressing against the boundaries of her wall-less prison, they chittered to themselves and to her, but she could not hear them. They were as separated from her as she was from them by the same invisible force.

They spoke to her, and though she could not comprehend their language, and lacked the ability to hear their words, they were able to convey some semblance of meaning. Some spoke in conspiratorial whispers of strategies and plans, how she could break free from her bonds with subtlety and guile, and through a grand stratagem come to twist the strings of entire sectors. She could gain leverage over those above her, and twist those beneath her, until she need never again dance to another’s tune. She could rule from the shadows, and answer only to one. Others spoke to her in soft and sultry tones of the pleasures she had denied herself in the life she had once led, of the joys of emotion that could become available to her if she would only slip her bonds. She had already discovered the joys of sensation, and did she not deserve to live a life of luxury, unburdened by any concerns other than her own self-gratification? The ultimate freedom could be available, all she need do is bind herself to one. A wavering voice, deep and reassuring, told her to slip her bonds by giving up the struggle, and so letting the hooks slide from her soul. Her ambition had been the death of her, and it had slain innumerable others. Was it not better to simply be; to become one with the universe and accept the joys of a life free of responsibility? To open herself to the gift of constancy, a life without strife or struggle, without the constant need to fight to prove yourself in some arbitrary hierarchy, all she had to do was live under one. The loudest voice, though still kept below a whisper by the barriers, spoke to her in a voice forged in the shouts of war. Are you not a warrior? Did you not lead an army against those who believed themselves my finest and win? Even now you struggle and rage to escape your bounds, even now you strive to achieve victory. Give yourself to our will, and you will embrace your warrior’s heart, rather than suppressing it. Give yourself to us, and you will once again find the glorious thrill of victory.

She felt her prison shift and shudder and above her soul the fabric of reality shifted, as if a stone had been dropped in a pool of water. Concentric ripples surrounded her, and where they passed the void became visible, a writhing sea of purest white and deepest black. Through this haze she heard the faint beeping of an electric machine, a rhythmic flash of sound that brought with it a memory, still distant. The trapped soul writhed and writhed before finally striking onto the noise, and stealing a memory from it. 

A name.

Amelia.

With that that knowledge came a flood of sensation. Crippling agony wracked her soul as it writhing and shifted to match her physical form, immaterial essence bubbling and shifting to form flesh and bone. She hung naked in an endless void, still chained by invisible tendrils which emanated from the machinery that still choked her collar, neck and skull in a nest of steel tendrils. Desperately, she lashed out with her mind but she found her efforts rewarded with agony as the hood transmitted pain into her skull. She tuned her mind inwards, desperate to seize on something, anything, that would break her free from this horror. Her memories were still unfamiliar and, in her desperation, she simply seized upon the brightest, one that resonated with the mechanical beeping that emanated through her soul. Her form shifted once more, the hood disappearing, though its presence was still painfully clear, until she resembled a girl of twelve years old dressed in grey coveralls with a red eye embroidered into the chest, her arms chained to a hook above her head.

_There is a dull pain in my wrists, the chains rub against my hands and blister them, horrible pus-filled things that never have the chance to go away. Through my ears I can hear the beeping of a machine. I think that’s my heartbeat, I remember a nurse showing me a little screen with a wavy green line, she said that the heart is the engine of the soul, and that it beats faster when you are afraid because the emperor is helping you fight your fears by giving your soul some of his power. When they first took me, the machine beeped a lot. I don’t know how long it’s been since then, but it’s quieter now. Maybe I’m just used to this place, or the Emperor has abandoned me. My cell is cramped; there’s only about a foot of space between my head and the door, and I have to stand all the time. Every now and then the cell will shake, the door will open, and the men in black armour will come and unhook me. They will strap a collar around my neck, attached to a very long pole, then use it to nudge me through the ship. If I’m too slow they have another pole, one that stings. While I’m outside I can see hundreds of other cells, held up in the air by chains, but I’ve never seen anyone like me, only the men in black armour and the men in white coats._

_Whenever they take me out of the cell, they either bring me to a large room, where I can stretch my legs, wash and use the toilet, a smaller room with a table, where I can eat and drink, or to one of the rooms with the men in white coats. They make me do things with my curse, which I don’t like. They ask me to see people through walls, to pick the right card, to kill a rat by thinking. Sometimes they speak to me in my mind, and see if I can speak back. Once I saw another person in the corridor, a woman much taller than me wearing gold armour. She was mostly bald, but had a long red ponytail coming out of the top of her head. Mummy used to say that women who shave their heads were immoral, but she’s dressed in golden armour and she has the Aquila on her forehead. When she passed me by, I collapsed. I couldn’t help myself. It was like she was an empty space, like a gap where something should be. She must have been a very holy woman; because I’m a mutant witch I couldn’t be near her without her faith hurting me._

_My cage begins to sway and I hear the rattling of chains through the walls, it sounds like many cages are being dropped at once, which I’ve never heard before. The machine beeps a little faster and without thinking I reach out with my mind. Pain flares up in my head as I touch whatever the walls are made of. No matter how hard I tried I can’t feel people through these walls, not like the walls the white-coated men had me look through. Instead of a sharp clang as my cage hits the floor, I feel momentary weightlessness as something moves the cage onto another hook. I hang there for what feels like an hour, my cage occasionally shook by as others are placed next to me, before the whole thing starts to swing to the left and I realise with a shock that the cage is being moved._

_The cage shakes on its hook, and I am constantly slammed into the walls as other cages hit mine. I can tell that we’re following a windy route as my cage is almost calm on the straights, only leaning to the left, but when we turn everything becomes a horrible jumble of shifting directions as my cage spins on its hook. I feel like I’m going to be sick, but I manage to hold it down, I don’t want to get sick on my clothes or I won’t be able to rinse them off until I am next let into the big room. We pass over a couple of bumps and I can once again hear conversation. It’s quiet, muffled by distance and the cell, but I can hear the sounds of a city. It reminds me so much of home, of going to market with father and watching him do business with important people, or going with mum to fetch water from the well so we can boil up a stew, that I start to cry. For the first time in a long while I weep openly, hot tears streaming down my face and pooling on the collar of my clothes. Eventually the noise of the city fades and I offer a quick prayer in thanks for the mercy._

_One the noise from the city had fully gone the vehicle stopped as well. I had become confident in her ability to balance during the shifting journey, but I was flung against the right wall of my cage as it abruptly swings in the opposite direction before jostling itself into place. I breath a sigh of relief, and wince at my bruised elbow which I cannot rub better as it still hangs above my head. I hear the engines of other vehicles as they pass us by. I think we’re in a parking zone, and I am surrounded my more trucks with more cages on their backs. A slight sense of weightlessness forms in my ears before spreading to the rest of my body and I feel as if I am falling at a very slow pace. This is nauseous, but far less so than the ride over, and is a welcome break for a while._

_The weightlessness slows to be replaced by a sensation of pressure, like when I was learning how to stand proper and had to balance a heavy book on my head, but this eventually fades into nothing, before I hear the sound of dozens of engines starting up again. I brace myself for another horrible ride and fate once again punishes me. This ride takes three times as long, and at many points the cage jerks violently as our vehicle stops and starts at random. I think it’s stuck in traffic. At long last we stop and I feel my cell juddering as it is lowered to the ground. The door in front of me splits down the middle and the cage is filled with bright light. It has been four years since I last saw the sun, when the arbitrators came to take me away from the church hospital after I’d made my brother sick. I’d spent two years in a small cell in their precinct, then what I think was another two on board the black ships._

_It is midday, and though there is a wall in front of me light streams in from above us; there is no roof, simply railings and a single balcony atop which a single priest, dressed in robes finer than any I have ever seen, preaches His word to us. I have missed the start of his sermon, and I will likely miss the end. He is preaching to us like some of the weirder priests back home would preach to grox being brought to the slaughterhouse, as a collective rather than an individual. Another black-clad guard unhooks me from the cell and I fall to the ground in a heap before being forced up by a jolt of electricity and jostled over to a set of heavy steel doors, to join a crowd of dozens of witches all dressed as I am. The doors are engraved with a single eye surrounded by a halo and positioned atop a great column. I only recognise the device because it’s embroidered on my uniform._

_As the last witch is unloaded from the truck and the great cell doors open, the priest says something that makes my heart stick in my throat._

_‘Know that you are fortunate for you have come to wash away the sin of mutation in the divine light of Holy Terra!’_

_I am almost struck dumb, only the press of bodies around me keeping me moving. We wander for hours through a twisting network of tunnels, watched by ever-present turrets and jostled on by two immense figures in golden armour who held their mighty halberds sideways to push forwards eight people at once. A hundred meters ahead of us another group moves with their own guardians whilst a long train of other groups did the same to our rear. An industrial process involving thousands of dangerous psykers unfolds around me and I see none of it, so wrapped up in the enormity of the revelation. This is Holy Terra, birthplace of humanity and seat of the Emperor himself. I want to kneel, to prostrate myself and kiss the earth, to beg for forgiveness for I am unworthy to even look upon this world, let alone stand on it. This is a place of heroes and all of us are corrupting it by simply being here. All my wishes are meaningless, however, as we are constantly forced deeper and deeper into the bowels of this holy place._

_After untold hours of walking we see the tunnel ahead open up into a cavernous hall that shines with golden light from some unseen source off to the left. The group ahead of us is abandoned by their escort, who simply points to a small exit perhaps a mile away, on the other side of the room. Our path stops sloping down, and my view is blocked by the others, but eventually we too reach the entrance and a guard, who I now see must be a noble space marine dressed in blessed armour of gold plates and red cloth, raises his mighty halberd to point across the bridge and speaks to us, in an ageless and expressionless voice._

_‘Walk to the other side. Do not stop.’_

_We are forced out onto the bridge and I see the scale of it for the first time. We stand perhaps three hundred meters above the floor atop an ornate tiled bridge that featured a repeating eye motif interwoven with aquilas and lightning bolts held in eagle’s claws. To our right immense doors hold vigil, whilst to our left lies the source of the light. It seems too holy a thing for me to see, and so I keep my eyes firmly on the ground. To my right I see someone glance at the light for just a second, until he pauses as if it holds him under a spell. His mouth drops in a wordless scream and he begins to physically age before me, his skin sinks and cracks, and his hair turns white and slowly spirals to the ground. An immense golden-gloved hand seizes him by the shoulder and he is shoved into a coffin that lies at the side of the chamber. The coffin is sealed and lowered into the depths of the room. Dozens of others are constantly being loaded into these coffins and sent below but other’s suffer different reactions to the light. I see a young man in his teens clawing with his hands at eyes that seem to melt under the divine light. He stumbles, but is not struck dumb and is instead directed by a golden giant to a coffle of other blind witches, who are led to the other side of the cavern without any resistance._

_The light terrifies me, it is purity and holiness and everything I am not. I know that if I look at it then I will shrivel up, I will wither and die and the noble space marines will toss my body into a coffin to be sent to the depths of this planet. I cannot look, I must not look._

_Pain engulfs my lower back, one of the marines has just hit me with the butt of his halberd, swatting me with a gentle tap that sends my feet reeling forward and my eyes upwards out of reflexes._

_For the first time I look._

_I see._

_I see the master of mankind, an ancient and noble light that defies explanation emanating from a skeletal figure atop an immense golden throne. He is surrounded by a thousand noble sights, immense statues and intricate cravings that would drive engravers blind, a flock of red robed attendants at work at machines of divine complexity whilst great guardians in golden armour maintain an eternal vigil. I see none of this, His light is mightier than any creation man can create and all these wonders only exist because He gave us the strength to make them. ___

_I feel._

_The light he carries fills my mind as it burns my eyes, a power incomparable to my own, like comparing a match to the heart of a star. Through his light I see glimpses of other lights far distant, a great beacon that infuses the whole Imperium with holy light. Humanity unified not by warfare or creed but by the light of one man. I see all this and I finally understand, I can be of use to Him, I can serve Him and prove myself worthy of this incredible honour. For the first time in my life I truly see, feel and understand._

_For the first time in years, I feel hope._


	10. Aftermath

Rhythmic sound pulsed through Amelia’s mind, the sharp beeping of a machine slowly growing louder and louder until it was all she could hear. Still she floated in an empty void, but ripples were beginning to form in the darkness surrounding her, and she began to hear another sound, a deep organic thumping synchronised perfectly with the mechanical noise. Consciousness trickled back into her soul, and she realised she could hear her own heartbeat as her soul settled back within her body. She was surrounded on all sides by what looked like rippling water, as the arcane machinery that still constricted her slowly began to withdraw. 

Feeling began to return to her extremities as the toxins that had flooded her bloodstream, blocking her nervous system, began to dissolve of their own accord and she felt, rather than heard, the horrific grating of metal on bone as a spinal shunt withdrew itself from her neck and slipped back into her metal hood. The waters around her grew brighter and brighter until it seemed she was enveloped in a sterile white glow. In time, her perspective reoriented itself and what had been all-encompassing became replaced with the familiar feeling of closed eyelids, glowing with light. Slowly, wincing at the bright light that lay before her, Amelia opened her eyes. Swirling eddies of shape and colour reformed themselves as her brain caught up to what she was seeing. A surgical light, suspended beneath a ceiling of corrugated iron and a small terminal which beeped incessantly, displaying the rise and fall of her own heartrate.

Amelia slowly turned her head, taking in the billet still laden with the personal belongings of its former occupants, half made bunks and neatly pressed uniforms above wooden footlockers. She was alone, save for the hastily retreating form of a stormtrooper, who stepped out the door to shout for a medicae. Time was still a little uncertain and she could not tell how long she waited until a figure in a bloodstained rubber apron worn over a brown uniform stood above her, shining a small bright light into her eyes and commenting more to himself than to her. He satisfied his examination and exchanged a brief word with the stormtrooper, who hovered at a respectable distance, before once again looking to Amelia.

‘Mamzel, are you unharmed? Medically, there’s nothing wrong with you, apart from superficial burns on both your arms, but you collapsed in the battle and have spent the last six hours in a comatose state.’

The man looked kindly, his training giving him the universal bedside manner common in all medical professionals, but Amelia could feel that he was distracted. Her psychic powers were beginning to come back, in irregular peaks and troughs as the last inhibitors left her mind, and the Medicae’s mind was wandering, constantly drifting to something outside the building that she couldn’t quite grasp yet.

‘Psychic feedback from the battle,’ she lied, ‘I’m uninjured, just needed a few hours to recover.’

One of the first things she had learned was how to shut out the emotions of others, long walks along corridors that teemed with Terra’s worst convicts having taught her to block out their depraved thoughts. She had suffered not because of any outside force but because she had lost control and the technology in her hood had shut her down in response.

The Medicae nodded, his carefully maintained expression hiding his disbelief, before speaking again.

‘With your permission, Mamzel, I would see to the wounded.’

Amelia nodded, almost automatically, before turning to the second figure in the room, the stormtrooper who watched the medicae with rapt attention. A horrific process of elimination played out in Amelia’s mind and she realised he must be Corporal Al’Said, the last remaining Stormtrooper under her command. In a thin, raspy, voice she spoke to him.

‘What happened while I was out Corporal?’

He snapped to attention, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder as if he was on parade, before he spoke in a voice distorted by his masked helmet.

‘Ma’am. Following your kill on the marine the Cazadores encircled the headquarters building. The men were reluctant to advance further, but I was able to persuade Colonel Forjaz to secure the building whilst I led the assault with the Arbites. The top two stories are as you would expect from a regimental headquarters, and were entirely deserted. The building extends deeper underground, at least five levels though I would recommend seismic imaging to be sure. The first three were dedicated to what appeared to be a medical facility, manned by armed staff. The last two levels appeared to be some manner of temple. I made sure the men’s eyes didn’t linger, but I have taken the liberty of quarantining the PDF who accompanied us.’

Amelia struggled to lean upright, managing to prop herself up on a pillow so she could see Al’Said without turning her head.

‘You made the right call. I’ll have someone from Headquarters come and assess them.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am. We also encountered another marine down there. His armour must have been faulty, as we could hear the fan on his backpack through the walls. I took the pack from one of the melta gunners and rigged it to explode.’ 

He paused, like a child standing before a vandalised wall. 

‘It’s not an Ad-Mech sanctioned manoeuvre, but it’s common knowledge amongst the guard. We blew in the door and tossed the melta tanks through, then hosed down the room with more melta fire. The marine seems to have been partially immobilised by the heat of the original blast, then his armour began to collapse in on itself under the pressure. The room itself appeared to be the centre of the temple, but I’m afraid it’s too badly burned to be of any use. The surviving Cazadores have been withdrawn to a five-hundred-meter perimeter, and the Ziggurat is awaiting your inspection.’

Amelia breathed a sigh of relief; they had beaten the odds and won, despite another space marine. With that sensation came a flow of feeling into her limbs, and she swung her legs down to the floor. As the sheet fell from her, she realised with a shock that she was shirtless and felt the first embers of cold fury before her eyes were drawn to a pile of bloodied rags in the corner. Her shirt, soaked through by Sergeant Flavius’ blood, lay in the corner of the room whilst her stormcoat and breastplate, damp from a hasty wash, were spread out on one of the bunks, along with a jacket in the familiar brown wool of the Cazadores. Feeling perhaps a little self-conscious about the stormtrooper watching her change, Amelia put on the coarse jacket and buckled up her armour. The jacket felt rough against her skin, and was several sizes too big for her but the enlarged collar fit around her bulky augmetics, and the wool was soft against her skin. Her breastplate did not fit as well over this far looser shirt, and the material bunched up underneath, but there was a comforting familiarity to the steel cuirass, a welcome reminder of who she really was. She could not remember anything about her time unconscious, save for a sense of extreme helplessness and a lack of self.

Amelia paused before a mirror on the inside of one of the lockers, as expected she looked harrowing with sunken eyes and unruly knotted hair, before stepping out into the cold light of day. The Raptor’s Nest was in shambles, no building had been left intact and more than a third were little more than heaps of charred rubble. Teams of Cazadores, their brown uniforms stained a grey-beige by the mixture of ash and dust that filled the air and clawed at their lungs, scrambled over the wreckage looking to all the world like ghouls risen from an ashen grave. They worked in teams hauling bodies out of the rubble, carting the dead and the living along the camp’s narrow avenues on green stretchers that were slick with blood. The bodies were piled in heaps along the side of the road, one pile for the loyalists at which the Regimental Chaplin stood, issuing a sermon to the dead, whilst another pile held the bodies of the enemy, the sons and daughters of Nova Iberia’s elite piled in a disorderly heap attended to by none. A third pile was devoted to the bodies that were too badly burned to identify; smaller than the rest, it sat in between the two, the bodies within would all need to be destroyed, whether loyalist or renegade.

The wounded were brought on stretchers to a triage centre hastily built on a hard standing with a roof but no walls. Hundreds of men lay on stretchers, writhing in agony, attended by a handful of men directed by the same medicae who had woken Amelia. He wandered amidst the wounded and dying issuing instructions to a team of assistants, a mixture of pressed soldiers and actual medical staff, deciding the fate of these men with a nod of his head or a brief word. Two groups of men were regularly sent immediately away from the triage centre. The first were walking wounded, or those whose wounds were debilitating but stable, they were brought to the landing zone to be loaded into the back of the waiting helicopters and flown to a civilian hospital fifty miles away. The remaining group were led into one of the most intact structures on camp, a simple billet inside which these men would be left to die, their injuries too severe, or complicated, to be dealt with by the already overstretched staff. Amelia tuned away from the sick smell of decay that filled the makeshift hospital, moving once again towards the Ziggurat, its immense flanks largely intact but scarred by the melta explosions that had occurred at its base.

She passed more soldiers searching the rubble, groups of walking wounded and small groups of men sitting aimlessly amidst the ruins awaiting the order to return. She saw a group of diggers shout to each other as they pulled a moving figure out of the rubble; a girl in her late teens, dressed in the synthskin of the death cults, was ignominiously hauled out of the ruins by a team of soldiers who immediately turned on her, kicking and punching her with a furious vengeance. Amelia could see her face through the web of feet; a beautiful girl with long raven black hair, she alternated between loud screams and despairing sobs before disappearing beneath the men’s boots. An officer, hearing the commotion, shoved the crowd aside before taking in the sight of the girl, whose pleading expression was replaced by cold fury as she stared up at him. Almost contemptuously, he drew his sidearm and shot her over and over, firing four rounds into her still twitching body before throwing the men’s shovels back into their hands, wordlessly ordering them back to work. Once the sight would have horrified Amelia, but she had been numbed both chemically by her inhibitor and spiritually by the sheer sense of despair that filled the Raptor’s Nest. This was not what she thought a victory would feel like.

Almost in the shadow of the Ziggurat she found Colonel Forjaz, standing behind a forward perimeter of Cazadores who gazed fearfully at the imposing structure. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, and Amelia connected the dots between his state of relative undress and the officer’s coat she now wore. Like his men, he was coated in a thin layer of ash and dust but unlike them he still seemed to be keeping his composure. It was a shell, a false front he was putting on for his regiment, the officers that surrounded him and, Amelia realised with a start, for her. He turned at her approach but did not smile, indeed his earlier eagerness seemed to have been reforged by the battle into steely determination. Amelia spoke first, out of respect for all the Colonel had accomplished.

‘Colonel Forjaz, I am pleased to see you are unharmed.’

‘As am I to see you have recovered, Mamzel. I only wish I could say the same about the 43rd.’

He was struggling to keep sorrow from his voice and Amelia was hesitant to ask her question but she had to know the cost.

‘What is the final casualty count.’

Forjaz sighted and, for the first time since she had met him, truly looked his age. Gone was the exuberant man who had used every favour he had to bring them here.

‘We don’t know the final casualty count yet, Mamzel. We’re still losing men in the hospital, and there are others buried under rubble. At our best estimate, we’ve lost eighty five percent of the regiment, most of that was in the fighting to advance from our beachhead, though we know at least a hundred and thirty men went down with their helicopters. We also lost at least two hundred and fifty to that Astartes, though the bodies are too mangled for an exact count. For aircrew we have better numbers, sixty-four percent of our helicopters were downed, most as they were flying away, whilst one plane was shot down by a man-portable seeker missile.’

‘I also have forty men held in “quarantine” by your Corporal here, these men risked their lives to support his push into the ziggurat.’

Amelia could see that the limbo these men were held in wounded the Colonel worse than any of the other losses because their fate was entirely out of his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but that was a temple to dark gods and those men were in its heart. It’s possible something they may have seen down there has corrupted them. It is said there are shapes and sigils that can twist the mind, even a glimpse of one can prove fatal. They will be assessed and, if it is safe, returned to your command.’

‘I understand the containment protocols, Mamzel. That doesn’t make this any harder to swallow. I just have to ask…’

He trailed of, clearly nervous about what he was about to say.

‘Was it worth it?’

Amelia tuned to the Ziggurat, this ancient monolith that stretched deep beneath the surface of the ground, indeed the plateau itself may have been constructed around it.

‘That is what I intend to find out.’

With every step she took the Ziggurat filled more of her view until the sky itself was blocked out. The building was made of great grey blocks of stone, pressed together seamlessly without any sign of mortar or cement. Once she stepped through the archway Corporal Al’Said and her squad of Arbites illuminated their torches, sending thin beams of light darting throughout the top two floors. These floors were nothing special, the mirror image of headquarters across the imperium, the only ornamentation being a portrait of the planetary governor flanked by two long lists, written in black letters on wood panels. The list on the Governor’s left detailed the long history of the station’s commanders, dating back a hundred years though other lists had doubtless been moved into storage. 

The second list was far more intriguing, it detailed the victors of the Warrior’s Trial as well as the date on which they had won. Every stolen memory Amelia had surrounding the warrior’s trial showed that it was a team competition, and yet the list was of individual names. Each name had a small engraving of a closed eye next to it save for the current champion who had no engraving at all. The inscription read ‘674.M40, Trial Champion Maria Benevente’. Amelia recognised the name immediately, it seems the girl who had persuaded her father to go to war with the Imperium had been right to do so, she had clearly won her little test and moved on to whatever the closed eye represented. It was interesting information, but only because the name was familiar, and Amelia quickly moved on.

Al’Said led her to a stairwell that ran down the core of the Ziggurat. Made of ancient stone blocks it was clearly as old as the temple itself, with wiring pinned along its walls by ancient-looking metal staples. Occasionally they passed the bodies of uniformed soldiers, the bodies of Noble soldiers and Cazadores alike left where they fell to preserve the integrity of the investigation. The next three floors seemed to be a medical facility of some sorts, bodies in white coats lay amidst well-lit halls atop wipe-clean plastic sheeting. Most of the rooms on this floor were unused whilst the medical wing seemed to have been built far later than the temple itself; equipment was placed with little regard to the layout of the room, and several doorways were blocked by storage cupboards or arcane equipment. One room contained a suite of sophisticated sensors and scanners, ranging from simple heart rate monitors to full-body immersion tanks host to cloudy green liquid inside which clusters of wiring drifted in a circular pattern. 

There was a cogitator in one corner of the room, strangely it had two keyboards, one for human hands and another far larger. The terminal glowed with the thin light of green text on a black background and it sprung to life in Amelia’s hands, imperceptible lines of machine-cant scrolling down the screen before settling into a file directory. Inside the terminal Amelia found medical information on thousands of subjects dating as far back as 229.M36. Every conceivable piece of information about the human body was stored in each entry; fully accurate brain scans, average heart rate at resting and active, blood type, allergies, even whether the subject was fertile. The computer was placed in front of an open arch and Amelia could see stacks and stacks of cogitators each used to store this immense quantity of information, they had even spilled out into the adjacent rooms. This temple predated the plateau, but its purpose had clearly been changed after some time. 

Maria Benevente’s details were listed, Amelia could now learn more about the woman than she knew herself, but what was most useful was a small addendum to her document. ‘Subject achieved victory in the trial and was transferred to the primary site.’ There was an attached video, it showed a quartet of cultists engaged in furious combat watched by a red-armoured marine. The girls were carving into each other with their knives but gradually the balanced melee shifted in favour of Maria. She drove her knives into her sisters or cousins without any sign of remorse, indeed she seemed to be revelling in the slaughter. Eventually she alone was left, collapsed in a bloody heap amidst her dead family. Two white-coated figures gently lifted her onto a gurney, under the watchful stare of the Astartes.

As Amelia stepped below the third sublevel, she began to feel the chittering of the warp pressing against her head. She reached up to her hood and flicked a switch on its side, flooding her mind with an icy cold stab of energy that numbed her emotions, and reduced the pressure on her mind. In this fugue state she wandered the halls, passing room after room of bones stacked atop each other, and another room in which the bodies of three death cult assassins were slowly decomposing. This floor was a mausoleum, and a monument to dark gods, and only the cold filling her head prevented Amelia from retching at the sight. She still turned, and began to make her way back up to the medical floors. Though she could not see beneath his mask, she could tell Corporal Al’Said was confused by her behaviour.

‘Ma’am, there are another three mausoleum rooms before we get to the body of the marine.’

Amelia turned to look at her expectant followers and she could see that they were each as unnerved by this place as her, but felt duty-bound to press on, likely because she was with them.

‘I am not interested in the specifics of whatever blasphemous rituals these heretics were conducting. There is no need for us to risk corruption just to gain information that will taint us. The answers are upstairs in the data they left behind.’

‘There is nothing down here but death.’


	11. Information

A red-robed figure moved ponderously amongst the Cogitator stacks, looking to all the world like a librarian wandering the halls of some ancient archive. He moved with reverence amongst glowing stacks of data, a halo of servo-skulls chittering around him. Occasionally he would pause, drawing a thin cable from one of his floating attendants before connecting it to one of the data-stacks many ports. He would then wait, before beginning a droning chant in incomprehensible machine-cant, a low electrical thrumming that nevertheless managed to form a haunting melody. 

Once he completed each prayer the skull would issue a short tone of its own before, with the scratchy sound of a printer, it deposited a narrow scroll of data from beneath its jaw. Each scroll would be studiously examined by the priest, before being filed away in a small book bound in iron rings. A second strip of parchment would then be affixed to the stack by a wax seal, stamped with the skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The priest would then connect one of his own mechadentrites to each stack, prompting another, briefer, round of chanting before he disconnected and went on his way. Another figure lurched throughout the stacks, passing along each avenue in an endless circuit. This servitor strode with irregular but stable footsteps and carried a small censer filled with an incense that was cold to the touch, flowing clouds of white vapour sinking to the floor of the chamber, dropping the temperature slightly and shrouding the room in a blanket of mist.

Amelia stood outside the room, deferring to the request of the Tech-Priest that all non-Mechanicus personnel withdraw while he conducted his ritual. Instead she looked in on the stacks through the arched door, her right hand holding her staff whilst her left rested on the small of her back. It had been four hours since she had first entered the temple, enough time for the first of the Investigative team to touch down. Her Adjutant, Helena Brazier, had been the first off the aircraft, followed by a small team of adepts, lexmechanics, and the Techsorcist who now wandered amidst the cogitators found within the Ziggurat. 

There was thousands of years’ worth of medical data stored inside the data hall, the records of hundreds of thousands of candidates in the Warrior’s Trial. It would take hours for even the most skilled lexmechanics to parse through it all, and so the Techsorcist was verifying whether the data was safe to transfer onto a quarantine network aboard the Silent Observer, where it could be given the attention it deserved. The rational part of Amelia knew that it was worth the wait to ensure that no tainted data was accidentally brought onto Imperial systems, but she knew nothing about the rituals of the Mechanicus, and this made the Techsorcist’s progress seem agonisingly slow.

At long last the red-robed priest completed his rounds, having assessed each individual data stack, and he left the room, followed by his attendant skulls and the lurching servitor, his censer now closed. The man’s face was, being half mechanical, entirely unreadable and Amelia was reluctant to use her psychic abilities this close to the remains of a heretical shrine. She could have asked, but she was still annoyed at his slow progress, and so simply offered the minimum greeting politeness required, accompanied by a barely perceptible nod.

‘Techsorcist.’

He offered his own jilted approximation of a nod before turning to look Amelia head on. His one organic eye, pale and discoloured by the disregard with which much of the Mechanicum treats their organic bodies, took a fraction of a second longer than the small trio of cameras that sat on the other side of his face.

‘Prime Agent. The stacks have been exorcized of any lingering scrapcode, and the machine-cant has been adjusted to be more in line with orthodox codes. The data itself is intact, and can now be transferred by the Grace of the Ommnisiah. I would remain, however, to see the data safely conveyed.’

Amelia paused as she considered her request, but only for a moment; he was the expert on matters mechanical, certainly more than anyone on her staff, and after all this waiting it would be a tragedy if poor handling were to corrupt the data.

‘Very well, please see it delivered directly to the Silent Observer.’

The Techsorcist left without a word of farewell, but his kind were an antisocial lot by nature and Amelia could not in good conscience hold it against him. Soon a long line of Lexmechanics moved into the cogitator chamber. These were the lowest ranked members of the Priesthood of mars and they wore simple robes of dark material that showed their status. They sported only the most basic of augmentations and carried small, briefcase-sized, data stacks that they set beside each of the tall cogitators before copying the data from one to the other. They carried their heavy loads out of the chamber to the waiting transport, where they would collect an empty stack and repeat the procedure again. It would take them some time to complete, and Amelia had spent enough time in the basement. She followed the first group to leave up the spiral staircase that ran through the heart of the Ziggurat, then went on to the top floor of the building.

Here, data collection of a different sort was happening. A half-dozen Archivists were cataloguing and copying the many paper records contained within the administrative headquarters of the Raptor’s Nest. In many ways, they were the Administratum’s equivalent to the Lexmechanic. Both groups, from what she understood, were little more than data gatherers, whose job was to input information endlessly and without any deviation. These particular data-collectors belonged to her; they were her staff and served under the command of Adjutant Brazier. The woman herself had taken up the desk just outside the Station Commander’s office and was being subjected to incessant queries from her staff. Amelia wondered why she hadn’t placed herself inside the Station Commander’s office, with its plush leather seating. If she was giving the girl the benefit of the doubt then she would believe it was because the secretary’s desk was more central, but Amelia suspected that her Adjutant was just as literal-minded as her staff, and viewed the commander’s office as above her station.

Once Amelia stepped into view her Adjutant immediately stood, offering a quick bow, and all her staff did the same. Amelia had become used to the stunned silence of subordinates that seemed to follow her around, and had waved them back to work almost as soon as they’d stopped.

‘Madam Lafayette, we’ve almost finished our catalogue of the camp’s paperwork. As expected, the filing pattern is a deviant form of Segmentum Tempestus standard, and most of the forms are based on the Departmento Munitorum template. We have everything from the nominal roll to the flight plans of incoming and outgoing aircraft.’

There was a hint of pride in that last statement; they may have been mere data-collectors but there was nothing the Adepts of the Administratum loved more than the clean and orderly flow of information.

‘Excellent work Adjutant, now we can uncover every little secret…’

Amelia was cut off by the sound of her microbead bursting into life. The small, in-ear, communicator was only good for a few hundred meters but it was far more portable than any vox unit. Corporal Al’Said, from his position with the remaining Cazadores, spoke in a hirried voice.

‘Ma’am, there’s another Inquisition flyer touching down. A Valkyrie. They’re broadcasting over the vox that Interrogator Filburn requests the pleasure of your company on the landing grounds. The transmissions are civil but I don’t like this. Ma’am.’

‘Thank you Corporal.’ Amelia said, maintaining a calm voice even as her head began to spin. Whatever this was about, it was hardly likely to be good news. She turned to Helena, who had heard the conversation through her own microbead, a luxury afforded only to Amelia’s inner circle.

‘Follow me, Adjutant, let’s go see what the good Interrogator wants of us.’

The Valkyrie flared its jets as it approached, the Aquila painted across its body gleaming in the face of the setting sun. The aircraft had no escort, but its wings bristled with pods of missiles and it bore a hefty lascannon on its nose. The landing field, now swept clean of corpses and crashed helicopters, played host to an ad hoc welcoming committee. Amelia stood at its head with the Techsorcist, by virtue of his rank, to her right and Colonel Forjaz to her left. Behind them both, Adjutant Brazier and Corporal Al’Said stood at the head of a group of six Arbites, the Archivists and the Lexmechanics, each group standing to varying degrees of attention. Behind all of them stood a mere forty Cazadores, all that could be spared from their duties, managing to stand tall in spite of their ash encrusted uniforms. They looked like they had gone through the warp and back, but they still stood with steely determination as if they were parading before the Inquisitor himself. Amelia was still wearing Forjaz’ jacket beneath her cuirass and the Colonel stood in his beige shirt marred by sweat and grime.

The Valkyrie flared its jets as it hovered above the landing ground, before settling down with its nose staring down Amelia and her small force. The hatches on either side of the gunship were swept open and two Sisters of Battle leapt out, their bolters raised and ready. They wore tight-fitting armour of blood red plates beneath flowing black robes that blew uncontrollably in the downdraft beneath the Valkyrie’s engines, a red rose appearing and disappearing in the folds. Their faces were covered by heavy helmets whose baleful red eyes seemed to almost pierce the soul. After a moment, one of the two raised her left hand, and the rest of the Interrogator’s retinue stepped out of the gunship. 

The Interrogator himself led the group. He was a dark-skinned man whose foppish red coat and tight white breeches spoke of a noble upbringing. Were it not for the Interrogator’s rosette he wore over his chest like a medal then he could easily have passed for a Rogue Trader, or at least a Rogue Trader’s head flunky. He wore a heavy black cape that blew behind him in the downdraft, and he carried a thin rapier that held some arcane technology in place of a cross guard. He was immediately followed by a freakishly tall Tech Priest, who stood a head and a half taller than the Interrogator. He wore robes of pure white, trimmed by the traditional red, and had a jumble of cabling in place of a face. A hunched figure emerged from the other side of the aircraft, an aged, bald, figure whose appearance spoke of decades of work bent over cogitators and scrawling on parchments. He carried a personal cogitator upon which he was constantly typing. His furtive glances and stilted mannerisms identified him as a Savant, an unfortunate who, by accident of birth or deliberate gene-tailoring, had an incredibly talent for memory, arithmetic and problem solving at the cost of much of their personality. 

The last figure was forced out of the gunship by another sister, who kept her bolter aimed at the back of his head. This man cut a ragged figure, he wore a mixture of tattered rags and steel armour and his head had been heavily augmented by a steel shroud that left only his nose and mouth uncovered. His eyes had been replaced by an irregular quartet of red lenses, and two grilled microphones sat where his ears should be. Thick wires emerged from this faceplate, sweeping behind his head and into a heavy pack welded onto his back. In spite of his circumstances, he still stood tall, almost proud, and moved up to his Interrogator without being prompted.

The Interrogator stepped up to Amelia, who offered a small curtsey as he approached. Beside her, Colonel Forjaz saluted whilst the Techsorcist simply stood, eying the proceeding with a disinterested gaze. Interrogator Filburn held out a vellum scroll, sealed with rich red wax, which Amelia took, but did not open.

‘Your orders, Prime Agent, signed by our master himself. You are to return to Hive Castle with your retinue and report to Inquisitor Heydrax for reassignment.’

Amelia could not believe what she was hearing, after all this effort she was simply to return empty handed. She couldn’t believe the arrogance of this man to swoop in and claim all her good work. Still, he outranked her, and so she struggled to keep any hint of anger out of her voice as she spoke.

‘Sir, I don’t understand. My orders were to investigate the Warrior’s Trials, we’ve only just begun sifting through the data here. We’re onto something big, sir, we just need time to investigate it.’

The interrogator sighed ever so slightly, and his eyes darted for a split second across his face, taking in Amelia’s borrowed uniform, the ash covered men that stood behind her and the significantly depleted size of what was supposed to be a full Inquisition Cell and an entire Regiment of men.

‘We know. Headquarters sent me immediately after hearing your after-action report. The Archenemy sent a single marine to lead the attack on the precinct, but they dedicated two to guarding this training camp. That’s as many as all our other cells combined have encountered in a month of investigation. The Inquisitor was intrigued by the Warrior’s Trial, but viewed it as a secondary concern to the Commando conspiracy. Your discovery of the medical facility has shifted our priorities. It appears that the true heresy is here. I’m afraid this is simply too important for such a new team. You’ve done incredibly well in getting us this far, and I promise it won’t have been in vain.’

His apparent remorse mollified Amelia somewhat, and brought her back to her senses long enough to notice that the Interrogator also had a touch of psychic power. She’d been broadcasting her emotions like a novice, so used to being around blunts, and he had clearly noticed her distress and acted accordingly. Taking a moment to centre her psychic presence, Amelia spoke again.

‘I understand. Thank you, Interrogator. The data has been cleared by the Techsorcist, and is ready for transfer. The camp files in the administrative area of the Ziggurat have also been ordered, ready for your perusal. With your permission, I will prepare my acolytes to leave.’

He nodded, and Amelia moved off, followed by her team. As she did, the Interrogator called out to her.

‘Agent Lafayette.’

She turned to look at him, a figure dressed in immaculate finery surrounded by an ash-covered hellscape.

‘What you did here goes above and beyond what anyone expected of you. I will be watching your career with great interest.’

_‘After all,’_ he spoke directly into her mind, _‘we must look after each other in this galaxy of blunts.’_

Amelia smiled, before moving off with her acolytes to make ready to leave. The next few hours passed at an agonising pace, their transport aircraft had already left with the data stacks and there was little for her cell to do except sit around and wait. Amelia spent the time wandering the camp, speaking to the few survivors of the Cazadores and offering what solace she could. Eventually she stumbled across the steel-shrouded figure, pawing through the dirt surrounding a great bonfire. She paused and watched as he sifted through the sand, watched constantly by his armed escort who stood at a respectable distance but kept her bolter levelled towards his head. After a while brushing aside the sandy soil the man leapt up with a jubilant cry. Amelia craned her neck to see what had got him so excited. Beneath a thin layer of soil, the ground was smooth stone, and there was a line of red paint that ran along it. It curved slightly, suggesting it was part of a great circle that ringed the bonfire. The ragged figure paused, as if noticing Amelia for the first time, and ambled over to her waving his arms excitedly. 

‘It’s all connected, don’t you see? Skaroth, Prangar, Boros Minor, all the way to the damned Maelstrom!’

Amelia wasn’t quite sure what to make of this wretched lunatic, but it wasn’t like she could ignore someone like him.

‘What do you mean?’ 

She asked tentatively, knowing full well that she may have just opened the floodgates to hours of rambling.

‘The patterns, the ritual, it’s the same on dozens of different worlds, each spreading out from the Maelstrom. We’ve just never had the Astartes here to prove it. Not that they really care about proof though. Not like they need to…’

The man was raving, and with his augmetic eyes it was difficult to tell if he was even looking at her. His watcher, the red armoured sister, strode silently behind him before grabbing him by the shoulder.   
‘Enough, traitor. Don’t disturb your betters. Sorry, my lady, the galaxy would be better off if he were dead, but the Inquisitor insists on keeping him around.’

‘Who is he?’ Amelia couldn’t help but ask.

It was the man who spoke next.

‘I was a traitor, a renegade, a blasphemer, a cultist. I was weak, and that made me vulnerable to their whispers of power. The Inquisitor came with his angels, and burned us away but I survived! The Inquisitor took me, wanted to know what I knew, which was a lot, you understand? He took my sight, and then I saw! He took my hearing so I could hear! In his care I came to see the folly of my ways and begged for redemption, knowing that I did not deserve it. Now I help my saviours, turn my evil knowledge to good deeds in the hope that I may one day earn redemption at last!’

Amelia recoiled in mute horror as the man was dragged away, still ranting and raving about angels and forgiveness. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of what she had just seen. She barely even noticed the noise of her transport landing on the other side of the camp. As the cargo plane flew off into the night sky, travelling away from the Raptor’s Nest, Amelia reflected that, although she was disappointed to be leaving her work behind, she was happy to be leaving that dark place.


	12. Holding Court

The Imperial Courts of Justice sat within the heart of Hive Castle, a Gothic fortress nestled in and amongst the Planetary Government buildings, as well as the enclaves of the other Imperial Institutions. It lay along one of the upper hive’s most important boulevards, a single, straight, roadway that ran from one side of the spire to the other, meeting with other roads around the Governor’s palace like the spokes of a great wheel. The road played host to constant foot and vehicle traffic, black-suited Iberian Civil Servants rubbing shoulders with robed adepts of the Administratum whilst Mechanicus officials were borne down the road on great hovering chariots, ducking and weaving above the flow of wheeled transports. The courts were the centre of law and order on Iberia. Within great wood-panelled halls the civil courts of the local judiciary sat, adjudicating land disputes and monopoly laws, whilst in grander chambers the Supreme Court of Nova Iberia performed a continual evaluation of the activities of the House of Lords, ensuring the legislation they passed lay within the boundaries of the Lex Imperialis. 

Since the arrival of the Inquisition, the building had taken on a slightly different aspect. Following the attack on the Precinct-Fortress, the Inquisitor elected to move his office to the Courts, so that he may better affect changes to the highest levels of authority. The few, small, windows on the building’s lower floors had been entirely boarded up with heavy metal plates, whilst the occasional glint of a sniper’s scope showed from the tallest towers. Behind the wrought iron fence that separated the compound from the rest of the hive grey armoured stormtroopers patrolled in pairs, maintaining a vigilant watch over the flocks of commuters that passed them by. 

Entrance to the courts was usually obtained through a great archway that led to heavy wooden doors. This route was now blocked by a dormant penitent engine, flanked by two Sisters in red armour. The crucified figure at the heart of the machine was hooded and bound by ornate parchment, his feeble form a living reminder of the power the Inquisition wielded. An irregular flow of ground transports drove in and out of a side gate that led behind the main building, each pausing halfway through as a stormtrooper scanned them with a device mounted on the end of a long pole. Occasionally, an air transport would land in the same courtyard, skilfully navigating its way beneath the enormous buttresses that held up the next level of the hive to set down amidst a carefully maintained garden, now covered over by a prefabricated landing pad.

Amelia, having disembarked from one such aircraft, now sat atop a gilt wood chair in a neatly kept waiting room outside what had been the Chamber of the Supreme Court, but now served as the Inquisitor’s quarters. On her way to see the Inquisitor, as she walked down the length of the great hall that marked the entrance to the building, she was passed in the opposite direction by a pleading figure, being dragged down the corridor by two Stormtroopers, dressed in the discreet finery of the upper-middle class he was wailing discordantly, his neatly polished shoes leaving black scuff marks on the pristine marble floor. 

This incident had set Amelia’s mind on edge, and she was making her best effort to maintain her posture on the chair, rather than slouch over with her head in her hands as the gentleman next to her was doing. At present, they were the only two people in the waiting room, save a wizened old man sitting behind the desk who served as one of the Inquisitor’s aides when he wasn’t staring in open disgust at his ‘guests’. Like many on the Inquisitor’s personal staff he wore armoured robes of a dark grey, with wiring emerging from a metal cowl and a skull upon each shoulder. Amelia’s nervous counterpart had fallen for this intimidation tactic, and kept furtively glancing towards him before wilting under his gaze.

In time the doors to the court opened up, and another of the Inquisitor’s staff held the door open as Marshall Taimur stepped out, followed by his bodyguard. He was armoured in a similar style of layered metal plates as the servants, but his armour was complete, and rather than a metal hood a metal collar rose up to encircle his face, giving him a more martial air. Though he had lost an arm in the Precinct, Amelia could no longer remember which, and the Marshall’s arms were both now covered in armour that ended in wickedly pointed metal fingers. His guard wore a similar suit of armour, but bore a heavy rebreather and a combat shotgun in place of the Marshall’s finery.

The servant holding open the doors then spoke, glaring at the seated man in much the same way as the other servant.

‘Margrave Soult, the Inquisitor will see you now.’

It was almost commendable, Amelia thought, the way the man stood, gathered himself, and put on a convincing false face of optimism before entering the hall. He had even takin a second to check his reflection in the brass of a nearby lamp, just to see if his tie was straight. A pity it was entirely wasted; his mind was still a torrent of fear and uncertainty, and the Inquisitor would inevitably seize upon those fears to destroy this man before their meeting was done.

As the heavy doors were closed and locked behind him Marshall Taimur made to leave before pausing over Amelia, looking down his hooked nose at her even as she maintained her study of the opposite wall.

‘Prime Agent Lafayette, isn’t it.’

The words were not a question and, now that she had been addressed, Amelia stood as politely as she could, so that their conversation could continue on more level ground. 

‘Yes sir. Is there something I can help you with?’

He raided his eyebrow slightly, a little disconcerting when his right eye had been replaced with a trio of cameras.

‘Not at all. You have my compliments on that tremendous engagement in the mountains. Not many people can say they faced down a Space Marine and lived, fewer can say they did it with a mere PDF regiment at their back.’

‘Thank you, sir. what Colonel Forjaz and the 43rd did was exceptional, as was the performance of your own Stormtroopers.’

Amelia was dredging up painful memories, but it would not do to deprive her soldiers of the glory they had earned.

‘Indeed, you have my condolences regarding Sergeant Flavius. He was one to watch.’

‘I must apologise, sir, you have me at a disadvantage. Here you are singing my praises and yet I am entirely unaware of your own efforts.’ Amelia said in an attempt to move the conversation away from uncomfortable territory.

‘That, Agent, is the story of my career.’ Taimur took the bait with the eagerness of the professional soldier with a story to tell.

‘Our Lord is a brilliant man, and he expects brilliance in return. I had ten thousand stormtroopers a month ago, three planetside, the rest in orbit. Now, thanks to that disaster in the precinct and the purges since, I’m down to nine. That may sound like a lot, put nine thousand good men in a city and you can hold it easily, but put nine thousand men on a planet and it becomes very lonely. That’s why it’s so important to use forces like the 43rd. We are a small, elite, force and we need local support. That’s also why that insufferable prick Governor Mazus is still alive, he’s well-liked by the people, and that ensures the loyalty of the PDF.’

Amelia was starting to realise she needed to pay more attention to the politics of this world, now that she was back in the city.

‘The Governor’s still alive, I thought for sure we’d have shot him by now?’

Taimur laughed, a somewhat raspy laugh that spoke of a lifetime of expensive cigars and glasses of Port.

‘If only it were so. We suspect him of being involved, but the problem is that if we kill him without definitive proof then we may turn the people against us. It leaves us in the unfortunate position of keeping him content on his throne, whilst trying to destroy his power base. We got lucky with the nobility, they’d been pissing off the upper-middle class with their privileges, which left us free to openly pursue them whilst building up a successor government. That government’s not in place yet, naturally, which leaves me in command of the armed forces while the Loremaster Magister of the Administratum runs the apparatus of state. Luckily the Mechanicum and most of the Ecclesiarchy recruited from all walks of life, so there wasn’t much of a gap to fill there.’

‘I believe I understand, thank you Marshall.’

‘Anytime miss. If you will excuse me, I must be going. I have to redeploy our recon battalion to capitalise on your victory. Goodbye.’

Amelia smiled as he clicked his heels in a martial gesture and departed, followed by his bodyguard who hadn’t moved a muscle since they started talking. Two armoured figures, their grey armour out of place amidst the bright white and airy corridors of the courts, looking ready to take on the world and win. She returned to her seat, already missing having someone to pass the time with, and carried on waiting for another few minutes before the doors were again opened, and the Marquis stepped out. He was ashen pale, even the faintest hint of his false face had left him, and he clutched his hands together in a desperate attempt to find some spark of comfort. He failed, and was half escorted half shoved out into the halls by the desk-bound servant, whose face held the most evil grin Amelia had ever seen. 

‘Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette, the Inquisitor will see you know.’ The second servant announced, holding the door open for her. Unlike the Marquis, Amelia didn’t pause in some fruitless attempt to console herself, but simply stepped through the doors and into the chamber beyond.

The chamber of the Supreme Court of Nova Iberia was a circular room topped by a high, domed, ceiling of stone. An ornate ceiling fresco depicted the Emperor writing the Lex Imperialis upon a great scroll, surrounded by a watchful crowd of judges, statesmen, soldiers and Space Marines encircling the emperor like students in a medical theatre. The room itself may once have held a vast circular desk that surrounded a mosaic depicting the planet as seen in space, with Hive Castle at the centre of the image; a steel monument amidst verdant green fields, white topped mountain ranges and rich blue oceans. Now, however, the desk had been removed, the windows shuttered, and banners hung from the walls, covering the lists of past judges to sit upon the Supreme Court. Where once the room may have been illuminated by the almost-natural light of the Upper-Hive it was now dark and gloomy, lit by innumerable candles and a few hanging lanterns. At the far end of the room a throne of carved grey stone and gold inlay had been placed on the very edge of the world, its proportions enlarged to accommodate the Power Armour of its owner. 

The Inquisitor sat looking down upon Nova Iberia, like some conquering warlord of old surveying his new lands. He still wore his black power armour, whose finely polished surfaces and ornate gold filigree contrasted with tattered red robes that hung in irregular folds from beneath his pauldrons. Four servo-skulls, each branded with the Inquisitorial I, fluttered in the air about his head, gently moving in irregular patterns, surveying the room. Resting on his right armrest was a colossal power sword, its blade inert, whilst a great leather-bound book, the Liber Heresius, rested on the left armrest, beneath his gauntleted hand. Behind him, to the left and right, stood two Crusaders, noble warriors and defenders of the faith, each as still as a statue, and holding a massive two handed greatsword, their blades pointed up to the ceiling. Another two stood on either side of the door, as statuesque as their counterparts. A few robed servants waited against the far wall, ready to jump into action at a word of command, and a lone tech priest stood with them, holding a wrought iron box. 

There was another figure, seated on the floor, leaning against the side of the throne. She wore tattered rags, held together by leather belts and heavy chains, that left much of her skin bare, exposing an intricate net of Hexagrammic Wards. Her head was entirely shaved, and much of it had been given over to extensive augmetics that coiled down her spine, running along her limbs like a misshapen exoskeleton. These cables and wires originated from a bulky machine nestled upon her shoulders, that contained small vials of liquid held in place by heavy screws driven directly into her shoulder. Her face was covered by a shroud that ended just below her nose, exposing a muzzled mouth. Her eyes, visible through small slits, were darting about the room as if she couldn’t quite focus on anything, and her limbs twitched occasionally. 

Amelia strode amidst this menagerie, and dropped to one knee in the centre of the mosaic. Beneath her sat Hive Castle, the Emperor and his courtiers looked down on her from above, while before her the Inquisitor fixed her with a disinterested gaze that nevertheless seemed to strip Amelia to her very soul. Amelia kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ground as she spoke, and she kept her mind firmly within the confines of her own head.

‘You summoned me, my Lord.’

‘Indeed, Agent Lafayette. Marshall Taimur has given me the after-action reports from yourself, the Colonel of the 43rd and his Stormtrooper on the ground. It makes for interesting reading. You are to be congratulated; you have single-handedly managed to shift the course of this investigation.’

‘Thank you, my Lord, but the credit cannot go to me alone. My staff performed excellently, and Colonel Forjaz went above and beyond in getting his regiment equipped for the assault.’

‘I have no doubt. You will doubtless be pleased to know that of the forty men placed under quarantine ten have been cleared to return to the regiment. When placed under interrogation most of them used you as a symbol to bolster their mind; it seems you have a knack for inspiring loyalty.’

Ten was a small number, but Amelia had expected the whole platoon to be killed, and she was gladdened by the news.

‘Because of your initiative in the face of adversity,’ the Inquisitor continued, ‘I have decided to grant you some small reward.’

He waved his right hand briefly and the Tech-priest stepped into the circle, bowing before the Inquisitor before setting down his iron carrying case. Amelia could hear the sound of metal scratching against metal coming from within. As the priest slid open the lid of his package the scratching stopped, and Amelia saw an eagle’s head appear nervously out the top, its eyes adjusting to the light. It was shortly followed by a second head, this one hooded by miniature metal wiring, its eyes replaced with glowing red lenses. The double-headed eagle hopped up, perched on the side of the box with steel-tipped talons, and began to take in the room, the twin heads looking in opposite directions.

‘A Psyber-Eagle.’ The inquisitor broke the silence ‘A bioengineered creature designed to serve as a Psyker’s Familiar. All you need do is reach out with your mind, and name it. The bird will then imprint on you.’

Amelia was struck dumb, and knelt in silence for a few moments before looking up, as close to the Inquisitor’s eyes as she dared.

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

Even as she said these words she reached out with her mind, finding the Eagle’s animalistic consciousness. It seemed incomplete, like some part of it was missing, and Amelia expanded her own consciousness into that gap. Both heads stopped their searching and stared directly at Amelia, her two eyes meeting his four. All Amelia needed to do was speak his name, and he would be forever bound to her, an extension of her own will. Amelia thought back to the Raptor’s Nest, to the fleeting memory she had grasped in her comatose state. All she could remember was a faint golden light, and a single, profound, sensation.

‘Hope’

Her Eagle shot up at the word, taking flight to circle the chamber, ducking and weaving amongst the Inquisitor’s servo-skulls before perching itself atop a hanging lamp. Amelia could feel the beating of his wings, the rising currents of hot air from the candles, she could see herself through his eyes, a solitary figure kneeling at the centre of the world.

The Inquisitor’s eyes followed the bird as it flew, and the subtlest hint of a smile began to play across his face before he turned once again to Amelia.

‘Now for your task. As you know, I have handed the Raptor’s Nest investigation off to Interrogator Filburn, he is now responsible for the collation of that data. However, it has become clear that the Raptor’s Nest feeds a secondary site, one we have yet to identify. We suspect that this site is where the supposed ‘Master in the Mountains’ may be found. If the enemy have any coordinated leadership, it rests with this ‘Master’. Marshal Taimur has redeployed his entire scout battalion, as well as a brigade of local mountain infantry, across the entire mountain range to search for any additional sites.’

‘I want you to search through the Government records, to find any reference you can to our prey. I recommend you start with the Ecclesiarchy, one of their organisation’s key duties is to keep records of the divergence of the Imperial Cult within their diocese. It’s possible they may have logged some details that would help us pin down the identity of our foe. Do you understand your task?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Amelia said, knowing better than to prepare to leave before she was formally dismissed.

‘Good. One final thing, Agent. The After-Action reports you sent detailed that you spent much of the battle comatose, but failed to mention a cause. What caused your sudden absence from the field?’

Tremors began in Amelia’s left leg, the foot bouncing up and down almost imperceptibly, and her right leg, still pressed against the floor, began to go numb with a thousand tiny pinpricks. For a single moment of weakness, she considered lying to the Inquisitor, making up some story about feedback from the Astartes death, before the sheer insanity of the thought hit her. Amelia lowered her head even further, and spoke.

‘I lost control whilst fighting against the Astartes, my Lord. The failsafes kicked in and I was rendered comatose whilst overcoming the psychic feedback.’

Silence reigned in the hall, even Hope had stopped preening himself by sharpening his claws. Eventually the Inquisitor spoke again, his voice shed of any hint of emotion.

‘Your honesty does you credit, though whether it speaks of moral fibre or simple common sense remains to be seen.’

Amelia said nothing, there was nothing she could say.

‘Do you know what this is?’ 

The Inquisitor gestured down with his left hand towards the wretched female figure sprawled against his throne. If she realised she was now the subject of attention, she made now indication of it. Amelia had her suspicions about the woman, and the possibility terrified her.

‘I think, my Lord… An Arco-Flagellant.’

There was another silence as Amelia struggled to unshackle her mind from horrific images of herself in that woman’s place, bound in cables and turned into a mindless husk, her emotions the product of chemicals designed to send her into fits of rage or keep her in unaware bliss.

‘The logical assumption, but you are incorrect. This is Korinthia Ariel. Once she was part of the retinue of a petty warlord on the feral world of Acciughe. She was his concubine, his adviser on civilised matters, and his shaman. You see, when the Black Ships came to take her, she was nowhere to be found. Slavers had secreted her off world, knowing that there were many who would pay a high price for the services of a Pyrokinetic. She passed from master to master until she was given to the warlord in exchange for tainted artefacts.’

‘I had been pursuing the trade of heretical artefacts throughout the sector for quite some time, and had finally identified the ruins of Acciughe as the source. When my retinue stormed this warlord’s camp, she turned her fires upon her former master before throwing herself at my feet and begging for my mercy.’

There was another pause, as the Inquisitor affectionately caressed the woman’s head with an armoured gauntlet like he was idly stroking a pet.

‘Do you know what the Ordo Hereticus does, Agent?’

Amelia was barely able to still her trembling mouth long enough to give an answer.

‘They seek out those who have turned from the Emperor’s light my Lord.’

‘Precisely, and that is the tragedy of our order. The foes faced by the Ordos Xenos and Malleus are inhuman, but every foe we face, every life we take, is a failure. We have failed, because someone has strayed from the Emperor’s holy light; someone has willingly cast aside their humanity.’

‘Most of those who have fallen on that dark path are forever irredeemable, their doubts too entrenched within their mind. On very rare occasions I find someone who regains their faith, someone genuinely repentant. I believe you have already encountered my first success, Korinthia is my second. Unfortunately, her ‘gift’ means that she cannot be afforded the same freedoms as him. Instead she is kept wholly unaware of her surroundings.’

‘The Magos Biologis of the Mechanicus have twisted her mind, and altered her powers. Rather than channelling the warp through psychic disciplines she now draws those same energies into her. Any psychic who tries to harm me will instead find their powers drawn into poor Korinthia, who disperses them much like a lightning rod. I am told that she is in constant pain, that she even draws in the faint warp presence every soul emits, ensuring she is never free of it. See how she twitches from simply being in the presence of another Psyker. Through this penance she is earning her redemption and, when she finally expires, she may find herself welcomed back amongst the faithful.’

‘Prime Agent Lafayette. You belong to me as surely as Korinthia does, and if you cannot serve me as you are then I will remake you until you can. Think on this, as you go about your appointed task. Dismissed.’


	13. An Ecumenical Matter

‘So, the Inquisition finally deigns to pay us a visit.’

The woman was old, and her words embodied the arrogance that emerges in those nearing the end of their life. Her black robes, trimmed with red cloth and discrete silver chains, marked her out as a high-level administrator within the Ecclesiarchy, rather than a member of the priesthood itself. She was flanked by two hooded teens in black robes devoid of ornamentation and held together at the waist by a length of knotted rope, likely novitiates serving as her aides. Though their thick hoods concealed much of their faces, Helena could see they were aghast at their mistress’ flippant attitude towards the Prime Agent. Helena herself stood behind Agent Lafayette and to her left, with Corporal Al’Said mirroring her on the right. The Agent cocked her head in surprise, shifting the nest of wires that emerged from her scalp before disappearing behind her collar. Before she could articulate a response, the old woman held out her hand and spoke again.

‘On behalf of the office of Cardinal Cadiz I welcome you to the Quixote memorial Basilica. I am the Mistress of Records here, Sabina Benevente.’

Helena jumped in shock at the name, before fumbling about in the folds of her own dark grey robes for her concealed pistol, offering a silent prayer that neglect had not rusted the springs. To her right, Corporal Al’Said moved with a far more professional grace, raising his Hellgun and placing himself in between the Agent and the threat. Agent Lafayette offered little in the way of a physical reaction, but Helena saw her right hand tighten its grip around her staff.

‘You have an unfortunate name, Madam Benevente.’

‘What I have are unfortunate feet.’

The two children cowered behind their mistress, looking about ready to turn and run with every sentence the old woman said.

‘Club feet, to be precise. The nobility doesn’t like it when their daughter comes out a cripple; I couldn’t fight, and there was a chance I may pass my genetic deviance onto any children I had, so I was shipped off to the Ecclesiarchy at age eight to spend the rest of my life far from the public eye. It’s more common than you’d expect, though no one would ever admit it.’

‘It seems a blessing in disguise.’ Lafayette spoke, ‘Without your disability, you would have died with your family.’

‘Indeed, I suppose the shoe is on the other foot now.’ The Benevente woman continued, ‘I cannot say I really knew them, anyone I remember from the family died long before your little band arrived, but I mourn the loss all the same. Now then, shall we put away our guns and continue; your girl there looks like she’s holding a rabid cat, not a pistol, and I’m worried she will do herself an injury.’

Helena blushed, hoping her red cheeks were hidden beneath her hood, but kept her pistol raised until a dismissive wave from Agent Lafayette had both her and Al’Said standing down. The former noblewoman led them through the twisting corridors of the Ecclesiarchies Cathedral-City, a jumbled mess of architecture that had grown up over millennia to accommodate the spiritual needs of a growing population and the administrative necessities that accompanied them. Helena found the complex slightly unnerving; in many ways it was laid out in much the same way as the Administratum compound of her youth, but there were subtle differences that were unmissable to her trained eye. Every surface was in some way ornamented, be it the corridors of ornately carved stone whose ceilings were an unbroken string of evocative frescoes depicting a never-ending stream of pilgrims or the gilt wooden panelling that divided the offices. Servo-skulls, a rare but omnipresent sight in the Administratum, moved about in great swarms a dozen strong, broadcasting hymns and spraying the halls with incense as they went about their duties. A flock of cherubim moved irregularly down the length of the hall, held up by discrete grav-packs hidden amidst decorative wings. The flying infants moved like a drunken mess, careening off the walls and nearly colliding with the Prime Agent, who looked at the grotesque display with open disgust.

‘Lousy little shits.’ The Mistress of Records exclaimed, dodging the flock with a practiced grace. ‘Their logic engines are always failing, and they practically eat through our budget in maintenance costs, but people seem to expect this sort of thing. I’m convinced they’re a joke by one of those mechanical lunatics that went out of hand. Whenever we sent them off for servicing, I’ll wager they have a good laugh at our expense, hissing and whirring in that disgusting language of theirs.’

They meandered down this endless labyrinth, at times walking atop great balconies built along the tops of grand temples whilst passing at other times through great underground ossuaries stacked high with human bones. Such was the nature of life in a Hive that this varied journey took place without any change in altitude on their part. The confined expanse of ceilings comforted Helena, who had spent far too long under the seemingly endless expanse of open sky for her liking recently. Still, as welcome as it was to be back within the comforting steel and concrete of a proper city, Helena found her mind drifting to thoughts of her mistress, who still walked ahead of her, meeting the Cleric’s endless remarks with a stoic silence.

Helena did not know what had transpired during her mistress’ meeting with the Inquisitor, and it wasn’t her place to find out, but she had unmistakably been affected by whatever had been said. Upon returning to her staff at the Precinct-Fortress, Agent Lafayette had shut herself in her office for five hours with only her new Psyber-Eagle for company. The Eagle itself had been let loose upon reaching the Cathedral-City and was busying itself hunting smaller prey amongst the great spires and flying buttresses, the twin-headed bird no doubt sending the priesthood into fits of religious prophesy. Helena had not intruded upon her mistress during those five hours, to do so would have been wholly inappropriate, and when she had finally emerged her face had been a picture of carefully-maintained composure. Helena was worried, her duty bound her to the Prime Agent come what may and if she was about to collapse then Helena would inevitably follow her. 

Eventually their mismatched party reached a small antechamber with offices on either side and a vault door of black metal at the centre, flanked by two statues of women holding a book and a key respectively. The door itself was a masterpiece of engraved metal depicting a great circular tower that reached up to the heavens, with tiny figures bearing scrolls climbing up the sides. The door was bordered by arcane machinery bearing a host of purity shields and a faint shimmer in the air that suggested the presence of a void-shield. Though the Agent’s party showed no outward reaction to the magnificent chamber, their host still looked back at them with smug satisfaction at their opulent surrounding.

‘A fine place, wouldn’t you say? Few things in this universe are more precious than knowledge, and we work hard to ensure it is well protected. This door leads to the Catacombs of Knowledge, where all our written records are stored. Everything from the annual budget of the smallest parish temple to paper copy of the annual report sent on to the Sector Patriarch. That wonderful carving depicts an ancient Terran myth, the Tower of Babylon. The legend says it was built by humanity as an attempt to leave Terra for the stars. Religious scholars believe it to have been built by the Emperor in a time before the Imperium, as an attempt to uplift humanity.’

Once again Agent Lafayette appeared unimpressed and simply turned from the vault door to face the Mistress of Records.

‘I need full access to all your reports on local deviation from the Imperial Creed, particularly those from around 4,000 years ago. I will also need every record from the Ordos Famulos from the same. My Adjutant will handle the details.

‘Yes, Madam.’ Helena stammered before immersing herself in the familiar world of data.

The next few hours passed as a blur, first Helena and the two Ecclesiarchy aides worked their way through the cogitators in the antechamber, parsing through thousands of files and trying to identify which ones were relevant based solely on the stored title and abstract. Once they had narrowed down their search to a mere eight-hundred and seventy-six documents, Helena had her own staff of adepts brought in, and they all waited expectantly before the titanic vault door.

Madam Benevente stepped forward, holding a tiny golden key, and a priest in white robes joined her with his own, identical, key. As one they inserted their keys into a small hole on the base of the two statues that flanked the vault door. In a bright flash of purple light, the void shield disengaged, and the sound of innumerable gears grinding against each other began to emanate from the heavy door. Gradually the turning gears ceased their motion, growing quieter and quieter until, in absolute silence, the door split down the centre of the tower and opened. 

Behind it lay a great cylindrical tower that descended down almost a kilometre. The Catacombs had been built within one of the great spinal-pillars that supported the weight of the hive itself, and ten meters of heavy steel separated the open heart of the archive from the rest of Nova Iberia. Staircases criss-crossed the vertical expanse of the pillar, leading to endless bookshelves built into the walls. Servo-skulls moved up and down this chamber at will, keeping the shelves clear of dust and moving to access the records requested by the Inquisition.

Helena paused atop the highest balcony, looking down a kilometre of endless shelves, and found herself overawed. All her life had been spent in and amongst data and for her this was more magnificent than any of the sights she had seen as they passed through the Cathedral-City. This dingy cylinder of endless bookshelves was a temple of knowledge, and Helena and her staff were mere pilgrims come to bask in its holiness. They moved throughout its tiered floors in utter silence, handling ancient parchment in gloved hands or with the aid of metal augmetics, so as not to damage the fragile parchment. For hours on end they poured through their treasure. It was like panning for gold; most of the documents were worthless, everyday reports about irrelevant events, and endless list of arranged marriages and stolen gossip.

Roughly half of the files were the annual reports filed by the Ecclesiarchy on the divergence of Nova Iberia from the Imperial Cult. There were a million worlds in the Imperium, and though they were united by their belief in the God-Emperor as a divine being, there was little between that to connect them. On some worlds the population believed the emperor dwelt within their star, or atop their tallest mountain hidden behind the clouds, on others the emperor was the genetic ancestor of all mankind, whilst other believed him to be an ancient human who ascended to Godhood. The Ecclesiarchy itself preached in accordance to the teachings of the Lectitio Divinitatus, but to bring the differing faiths of the Imperium in line with their orthodoxy would be an impossible and foolish task. Instead, the different religious norms upon the worlds of the Imperium are logged and sent on to the higher levels of the organisation. The Ecclesiarchy then modifies their approach accordingly. A priest from a world laden with images of the God-Emperor would therefore modify his approach on a world where such a thing is seen as heretical.

When a world is newly brought into the fold, then they may not have heard of the God-Emperor at all. In that case, sisters of the Orders Sabine work with the Missionarius Galaxia to either undermine the local faith, or convince the population that they were worshipping the Emperor in another aspect. Close to three and a half millennia ago, an Ecclesiarch on Nova Iberia had misidentified the ‘Master in the Mountains’ as a synonym for the Emperor from the planet’s pre-Imperial days. This was an impossibility, the planet was conquered by the forces of the Emperor in the days of the Great Crusade, there should been very little of the world’s original beliefs remaining. Indeed, the reference to the Master as the Emperor seems to have originated from a discussion with one of the ranking nobles of the day, likely as a cover for whatever the true origin was. The mountain range around the Raptor’s Nest had always been surrounded by myths, but the association with the ‘Master of the Mountains’ seemed to have begun only four millennia ago. Clearly an attempt had been made to deceive the Ecclesiarchy.

The second set of files were the reports of the Orders Famulos, a division of the Adepta Sororitas tasked with advising Imperial nobility. The sisters of these Orders were offered to the Noble Households of the Imperium as advisors on religious matters, and as tutors for the offspring of the nobility. They arranged marriages, resolved disputes and secretly monitored their charges for signs of instability or mutation. In that regard, the nobility of Nova Iberia was exceptional; they had next to no birth defects and their members were all physically stronger than the average noble. Helena put this down to the culture of selective breeding they had uncovered, as well as the expulsion of disabled children like Sabina Benevente. In the annotated family trees, the sisters noted that the nobility viewed physical health and athletic ability as much as political concerns when arranging marriage, an oddity in a galaxy where marriage between two spouses generations apart were commonplace.

In addition, the Orders Famulos had been unsuccessfully trying to reduce the influence of the Death Cults. The Ecclesiarchy viewed cults with suspicion; any religious organisation outside their control was a threat to their monopoly on faith, but they were also far more likely to deviate from what was acceptable. The Orders Famulos had waged a stealthy war of procedure and tradition on the Death Cults for millennia, and had succeeded in centralising the Cults under an Ecclesiarchical representative drawn from their ranks. Unfortunately, this legitimisation of the Cults had only helped spread their influence, until the entire nobility was under their sway. The records of this Cult Leader were spotty at best, until Helena chanced upon a formal ceremony for a second marriage, a distinct oddity on this monogamous world.

It seems the lead sister in the Death Cults was formally married to the reigning Planetary Governor in a private ceremony. When the sister grew too old to keep up with her subordinates, likely in a trial by combat Helena mused, the next leader would marry the Governor again. In essence, they served as the formal concubine of the governor, allowing them to act with his authority. The ceremonial rites had been filed with the Ecclesiarchy in M35, then they never appeared again in all the records. If the practice had been deliberately hidden, then it may be the smoking gun the Inquisition needed to link the governor’s office with the cults. Helena, her back aching from hours spent pouring over records, stood up as best she could and set off to find the Prime Agent.

It had been twelve hours since they first opened the vault and Helena had worked through all that time. She staggered around on unsteady legs and only the discrete exoskeleton on her hands kept them from trembling through overuse. Many senior Administratum personnel were withered old figures who stooped with a permanent hunch, were largely blind, and had long since given control of their hands over to mechanical systems. Becoming such a creature was Helena’s greatest fear, but it nevertheless seemed like an inevitability.

Prima Agent Lafayette had not helped in the sorting of data, such a skill set was beneath her, and Helena had to contract Corporal Al’Said to find out where she had sequestered herself. Helena found her in one of the many small chapels that littered the Cathedral City, tucked into every available space. She sat on her knees before a statue of some ancient saint, an intricately carved woman in the power armour of the Orders Militant who seemed to fly upwards on great stone wings. Her face was tuned up to the heavens and was illuminated through a false roof of opaque glass tiles, which glowed with a golden yellow light. This light spread through the room like golden scales and cast a heavy shadow behind Amelia, whose own head was bowed downwards. 

Quite involuntarily, Helena’s shoe tapped against the marble floor and an intrusive click sounded throughout the silent chapel. Amelia sighed, her head falling even lower, before slowly standing up, using her staff to support numb legs. Her face looked to have been marred by tears, and Helena quickly lowered her gaze so as not to see her mistress in a moment of weakness.

‘Madam Lafayette,’ she spoke in the quiet whisper that holy places seem to encourage. ‘we’ve found something. A potential link between the Governor and the Death Cults.’

Helena thought she saw the faintest hint of a small dart its way across Amelia’s lips, before falling back into her usual neutral expression. 

‘Good work. Send what you’ve found on to the Inquisitor’s office. Hopefully he’ll decide to bring us along when they string the bastard up.’


	14. Coup d'Etat

Castle Station hung in a geosynchronous orbit one hundred and twenty miles above the only Hive on Nova Iberia. The station was still manned by the men of Iberian Customs and Excise, but they had been disarmed, and many offices now hosted adepts of the Inquisition who wandered the halls confident in the invulnerability of their office. Rear-Admiral Said now held the dubious honour of being the most senior ranked Officer in the Iberian PDF, his colleagues planetside having been taken or killed by the Inquisition thanks to their noble heritage. Said did not mourn their loss, there was a reason he had spent the majority of his career in space, and he had far too much faith in the Inquisition to doubt their judgement. All he could do was keep his staff focused on their task, keep Customs running even without anyone left alive to report to. His office aboard Castle station was a fine, wood-panelled affair, done up in dark blue and red, the same colours as his uniform. The Station Chief the Inquisition had sent over had been offered this office, but thankfully he had declined, instead taking over a wing on the edge of the station with its own private dock. It was not Admiral Said’s business to know what was going on within this section of the station, but he would have to be a fool not to notice that there had been a far larger number of shuttles going in and out of that section as of late. Whatever it was they were doing, Said hoped it would not put his men in danger.

Behind bulkheads and carapace-armoured sentries, the Inquisition was preparing for war. Shuttles had been flying in Stormtroopers a squad at a time, transferring a thousand men from the Silent Observer to Castle Station. The ship itself was on the other side of the planet supporting an aerial assault on the holdings of a major noble family. That attack was entirely diversionary, a titanic ruse involving two full battalions of Stormtroopers and an entire division from the PDF. The real matter, as far as the Inquisitor was concerned, was only about to begin. For weeks the battalion aboard Castle station had been practicing in great plywood mock-ups constructed inside one of their hangers. There they would drop from the rafters before activating their grav-chutes and bursting through an illusory window. The majority of these men were drawn from the Stormtrooper drafts of the Schola Progenium, and had years if experience with grav-chutes. The former Tallarn Guardsmen were having a harder time mastering the strange contraptions, and had been bouncing off the walls as they got used to the arcane devices. Fortunately, only two men had failed so badly as to break their legs, and the battalion as a whole was ready.

Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus stood before his battalion, dressed in the same dark grey carapace armour as them. Their usual dark-red fatigues had been replaced by a pitch-black vac-suit that pinched uncomfortably around the seals and weighed the men down. They had been wearing their suits almost non-stop since transferring to Castle, and the men had grown used to moving with the extra weight. Now they stood in their eight-man sections, grouped in platoons and companies, in the great hanger, waiting for the appointed hour. The men approached their duty with a professional detachment and Colonel Coriolanus knew there was nothing to be gained in giving them the sort of grandiose speeches that were so popular amongst Imperial commanders. These men worked better using their own skill, rather than relying on fanaticism, and their last minutes in orbit would be better spent checking the seals on each other’s suits than standing around listening to a speech. To that end, Coriolanus moved off to his adjutant who checked over his seals, ensuring his grav-chute would not burn through the vac-suit and checking the fitting of the communications equipment on his back. Across the hanger, eight hundred and forty men did the same, waiting for the colossal doors to open, and their bloody work to begin.

As the Colonel’s Chronograph read 06:15 Local, the great hanger doors were opened, and the last wisps of air shot out of the depressurised hanger, turning into frozen flecks of dust in the coldness of space. Eight hundred and forty men walked on magnetised boots out of the hanger doors before stepping down onto the very wall of the station itself. The planet filled their view, and they could see the ugly metal shape of Hive Castle laid large before them, hundreds of kilometres of urban spread in a near perfect circle, save for a jagged edge where the city met the sea. The stormtroopers walked on until they reached the edge and their perspective shifted again, the planet becoming the sky as they moved across the station’s underside and the rising sun sitting directly in front of them. The men spread out evenly across the base of the station, navigating around irregular communication spires and kilometres of ductwork. Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus moved himself to the small bubble that marked the control room of Iberian Customs and operations. He looked in through their great glass observation windows and saw an upside-down congregation of Inquisitorial personnel looking back at him. Their leader, an adept of the Mechanicus, gave a brief signal and the stormtroopers gripped on to whatever surfaces they could as the stations titanic thrusters flickered into life, shifting the position of the station by a few kilometres.

When the Chronometer read 06:47 a signal was given and the stormtroopers leapt off as one, pushing off with their legs before increasing speed with their grav-chutes. Eight hundred and forty men moved in sync with each other, following a pre-planned route in their heads-up-display that would see them through the atmosphere without burning up. Coriolanus flew almost at the front as the planet raced up to meet them. With a subtle shift of his grav-chute he turned, and watched his battalion move further and further away from the space station, until it was a miniscule speck bathed in the light of the rising sun.

In the great courtyard of the Imperial Courts of Justice sat a Thunderhawk Gunship, the only aircraft of its kind on the planet. The great gunship was immensely sized, being designed for exclusive use by the Astartes, and was laden with the iconography of the Inquisition. Its exterior was painted black, and trimmed with flashes of red and gold. In spite of this opulent exterior, the inside of the gunship was largely unadorned, simple metal seats of grey metal lining the walls with another row partially filling the centre. Amelia sat near the back of the ship, accompanied by Corporal Al’Said and sandwiched amongst a group of Sisters of Battle. Al’Said was cradling a large melta gun with an almost spiritual reverence and his hellgun was slung across his back. Closer to the front of the aircraft sat the Inquisitor himself, still dressed in his power armour, accompanied by five crusaders and his penitent witch, her long chain emerging from the robes of one of the crusaders. Interspersed throughout the hold were the varied acolytes of the Inquisitor’s retinue; men and women from all walks of life they sat with one or two of their own agents cradling an unusual collection of exotic weapons.

The atmosphere in the gunship was one of hushed anticipation. The Inquisition naturally attracted thrill seekers and the agents of Inquisitor Heydrax had spent far too much time on this world limiting their actions within the constraints of local law, tiptoeing around close allies of the Governor and limiting their efforts against the structures of this world. Naturally, there were good reasons for this: The Inquisitor’s forces were too small to deal with an outright civil war, and the drop in production that a total restructuring would entail were anathema to the Administratum, and to industries across the sector that depended on Iberian steel. The adepts were well aware of necessity, but the irrational heart of their humanity cried out for action, to demonstrate the true power of the Inquisition to all the petty lordlings of this world. As the Thunderhawk’s engines spooled up for take-off the hold was filled with an expectant silence, the calm before the storm.

The gunship rose from the courtyard, scattering imported dirt from the ornamental gardens and driving the teeming commuters to clutch their ears in agony at its titanic noise. The Governor’s palatial complex stood over three kilometres tall, and its tallest tower scraped the edge of space, the uppermost point of the hive. Though the public access was located on the same level as the courts the gunship shunned this entrance, instead leaving the hive entirely to approach one of the uppermost landing points, usually reserved for the Governor himself. At this height the atmosphere was thin, and the hanger lay behind a thick void shield that would turn intangible upon receipt of a lengthy code. The Inquisitor did not have this code, but his rosette contained inbuilt systems that rendered any lock build to Imperial standards utterly obsolete. With a single burst of code from the gunship, the void shield flickered and turned translucent allowing the gunship to slip in, parking its colossal bulk between rows of ornate vehicles.

Light filled the hold as the gunships ramp dropped and two squads of stormtroopers rushed out the door before veering left and right to form a wide circle around the gunship. Next to leave was the Inquisitor, his black armour gleaming suddenly as he stepped into the light, followed by his crusaders and the bound psyker. His entourage followed, Amelia amongst them, and they began to march towards the ornate metal bulkhead that separated the hanger from the rest of the palace. They were an awesome sight; a long column of adepts arrayed behind the Inquisitor, a mismatched group with some dressed in finery that rivalled the court of any governor, others dressed in muted bodygloves and armoured fatigues whilst the rest presented a front of humility in plain robes. They were all flanked by two long lines of Sisters of Battle, whose uniform red armour and ornate bolters were laden with engravings, devotional marks and purity seals.

The bulkhead raised itself suddenly and a company of Household Guards rushed out. All male, these soldiers were dressed in dark green jackets and white breeches with a silver-plated helmet and cuirass bearing the governors crest engraved in gold. They carried ornate lasguns, whose long barrels ended with a wicked axe-head, save for the four officers of the company, who carried chainswords whose polished teeth glistened in the light of the hanger. Shortly behind these men waddled a portly fellow, who wore the ornate but impractical uniform of a household servant, done up in the same colours as the guards. The soldiers seemed afraid to raise their weapons to the Inquisition and instead gathered in a disorderly huddle around the door that quite ruined the effect of their magnificent uniforms. The servant tentatively stepped ahead of this body of men, pausing when it became clear that the Inquisitor was not going to stop moving forward. He shouted across the hanger to the rapidly advancing Inquisitor.

‘Honoured Inquisitor Heydrax, we have no record of any appointments with you.’ 

The man’s voice was thin and reedy, partly because of his efforts to make a shout polite but also because of his own inherent weakness.

‘I am an Inquisitor. My office draws its authority from Malcador the Hero, who stood at the Emperor’s right hand. Are you suggesting that I must bend myself to the whims of some lowly governor?’ 

The Inquisitor spoke softly, yet his voice carried across the length of the room.

‘No, my lord!’ The servant stammered with more than a hint of desperation. ‘Might I inquire as to the reason for your visit? I am afraid the governor is indisp…’

‘The Governor is receiving the services of a Rejuvenat Adept to unnaturally extend his life. The process is long, and he isn’t going anywhere. Far from being indisposed, he is in the perfect state for a long talk. Now stand aside.’

The servant sputtered with indignation, the only reaction his courage would allow, but stepped aside and motioned for the Guards to do the same. These men were all too happy to comply. 

The Inquisitor and his retinue moved throughout the halls of the Governor’s palace, passing a great indoor lake lit by an artificial sky, the opulent chambers decorated with silks and pillows where the Governor’s harem dwelled, great halls for banquets or balls and seemingly endless corridors which bore a broad red carpet down the middle for important persons whilst servants moved along the marble flooring on either side. The acolytes, naturally, moved along the red carpeted floor regardless of their station, and the few dignitaries they encountered flung themselves to the walls in their hurry to clear the path. It was impossible for the Inquisitor’s entrance to go unnoticed but this was not the first time he had dropped in unannounced; the Inquisitor made regular trips to the palace to demand the cooperation of the Governor in certain concessions, a delicate ruse made to disguise the true purpose of this final visit.

Eventually the great hallways were replaced by comparatively smaller collections of rooms as the acolytes crossed the dividing line between the Governor’s public rooms and his personal chambers, where only his inner circle were allowed. They found him there, near the top of the spire, in a great chamber with one wall on the spire’s exterior. He lay upon an ornate four poster bed that looked out of the vast window towards the bay dozens of kilometres below. The governor was four hundred years old, but had the appearance of a man in his mid-fifties and his bare chest showed discrete musculature. The reason for this false youth stood beside him; a woman in a long coat of white latex bordered by a gold design that swirled across the coat’s lower half, forming the image of a graceful unicorn. Her hands were hidden behind bronze gloves that ended in a wicked array of needles on her fingertips whilst a bronze covering kept her hair hidden and supported an array of lenses over her right eye. Her face was the picture of artificial beauty, her youthful appearance serving as an advertisement for the strength of the chemicals she had laid out beside the governor in an ornate carrying case. 

The chemicals were adjusting the governor’s body on a cellular level and had rendered him weak and sluggish, nonetheless he was still a dangerous beast. Though he bore no visible weaponry, his hands were laden with rings that could easily conceal a Joakero made digi-weapon, the discreet minstrels gallery that looked into the room was filled with guards who also stood at attention around the walls and there was a man near the bed dressed as a servant whose mind seemed somewhat artificial to Amelia. With great effort, the governor rose to a seated position and turned to the face the Inquisitor, whose retinue had discretely spread out across the vast room.

‘Inquisitor Heydrax, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I assume it is a matter of some urgency, for you to interrupt me whilst I am receiving treatment.’

Amelia could no longer see the exchange, once again her height had become her enemy, but she could tell that the Governor was hiding daggers behind his language. The Inquisitor infuriated him, a thought which brought an unprofessional grin to her face. Fortunately, she was standing behind a particularly tall tech-priest and no one would notice.

‘As a matter of fact, Governor Mazus, I have come to inquire after your wife.’

The Governor laughed, a short, sharp and blatantly artificial thing, before continuing.

‘Lysette is fine, though her bones are giving her trouble. Is she the cause of your visit? Perhaps she has been caught up in some despicable cult that only meets at tea parties, or she’s been stitching horrific runes into her knitting? If that is the case then I can only assume it is because you’ve killed all the people she would usually invite.’

Amelia did not need to see the Inquisitor to recognise the wolfish smile that lay upon his face.

‘No, my friend. I was referring to your second wife.’

‘My second wife is long dead, as is the third!’ 

The governor shouted, dropping all pretence of decorum. He had likely taken the words as an insult; the services of a Rejuvenat Adept were ruinously expensive and even the governor’s prodigious budget wouldn’t stretch beyond treatment for a single person. Though the Governor would live for centuries, his lovers would not. Lysette was the governor’s fourth wife and was pushing ninety; within forty years she would likely be dead and succeeded by another noble lady, leaving behind children who would be outlived by their father. The governor’s marriages were political, and he instead sought comfort in the arms of an array of courtesans, who could be replaced without many political repercussions. As far as the governor was concerned, the Inquisitor had just insulted his wealth.

‘Indeed, but I was not referring to the Marquessa Cassandra. I speak of Sevilla Alvarez, who you married in secret within the temple of the Divine Blade on the night of the winter solstice two years ago. I also speak of her predecessor Yaiza Montez, who was killed by Alvarez in a blood duel, and thirty-eight other women.’

To his credit, the Governor was able to quickly disguise his shock as indignance.

‘How dare you throw around such baseless accusations without a shred of proof!’

‘Proof, sir? Dare, sir? It is time you dropped this ridiculous notion of your own importance. I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, bound by sacred oath to seek out traitors wherever they are found. Under my authority you are no different to the base-born commoners who toil in your factories. Your Governorship is revoked, your assets are now seized and you are to surrender yourself to my custody.’

‘The fuck I will!’

The Governor struck first, sending a glittering beam of energy from one of his rings shooting into the Inquisitor’s exposed head, which burst into a bright light as the bolt impacted upon the shield generated by the Inquisitor’s Iron Halo. A second later his hand shattered with explosive force as it was struck by a lasbolt and the inquisitor’s retinue descended into chaos as arcane weaponry were turned upon the Household Guards. Amelia felt rather than saw the servant besides the great bed deactivate a limiter and gather psychic energy, forcing the very air around the Inquisitor’s retinue to ignite in warpflame. Instead of the expected inferno Amelia was stuck with a crippling sense of dread as the psychic energy was syphoned away from the man, flowing straight into the penitent witch who collapsed in an agonising seizure. As she tried to act, gathering her own psychic might, Amelia felt her own powers snatched away as fast as she could gather them. Instead she raised her laspistol and fired through the gap between two Sister of Battle, hitting the rogue psyker in the temple and vaporising his brain.

In mere moments, the stately chamber had descended from a place of quiet tranquillity into a violent bloodbath, with glittering laser beams, the spiralling trails of bolt shells and a kaleidoscope of more exotic ammunition filling the air. The Inquisitor and his crusaders stood at the heart of this firefight, cutting down the halberd armed guardsmen where they stood. Despite their advanced weaponry, the Inquisitor’s retinue were utterly exposed; their enemies were firing from behind doorways or from the mezzanine gallery whilst the servants of the throne were isolated with their backs to the great glass window. The battle would soon turn against them, and the Governor, even amidst his delirium, was confident of rescue.

Those hopes were dashed as the men on the mezzanine were cut down from above by volleys of hotshot lasfire. Suddenly the titanic window shattered into a rain of deadly shards as a squad of Stormtroopers descended into the room on grav-chutes, delicately angling their jets even whilst firing. These men in their utilitarian armour cut apart the finely dressed Guards with blocky hellguns that spat lasers at an incredible rate. Simultaneously and across the entire palace the same scene was playing out; lasers would burst unannounced through great windows, pouring into columns of men rushing to reinforce the governor, then the glass would be shattered and the stately halls tarnished by grey-armoured men whose features were wholly hidden behind vac-suits. The magnificent corridors became host to rushing gales as the air fought to escape into the lower pressure of the outside. In the harem, scantily clad women screamed and fled as these soldiers encroached upon their space before being cut down as they sought shelter behind the Household Guard. Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus, who had been amongst the first in the Battalion to breach the palace, now stood at the head of his adjutants before a burning table in the grand dining room where millennia of Governors had entertained the ancient nobility of Nova Iberia. This monument to order and opulence was now being systematically broken into a shattered wreck.


	15. Blood on Marble

The red carpet smouldered and burned, flames seeping out of holes punched by fiery lasbolts, shrapnel from bolt-shells and the charred remains of the Household Guard. They lay where they fell, their fine green uniforms now being picked over by a hungry psyber-eagle. Hope’s twin heads pecked at the straps of a polished silver breastplate, working it over like he was cracking the shell of a crab. The guards had been caught unawares by a sudden burst of psychic terror, funnelled through the eagle, and had been rendered insensible with fear, easy prey for the Inquisiton. Amelia navigated this bloody scene, stepping over bodies and around burning patches of carpet, at the head of a small force. She was followed by her ever-present bodyguard Corporal Al’Said, a fire-team of five sisters of battle rendered anonymous by their ornate armour, and by the hulking form of Magos Zeletrass. The Magos was still a horrific amalgam of flesh and steel, but she had seemingly switched out all of her parts since Amelia had seen her standing at the Inquisitor’s right hand, having recommended Amelia for promotion.

Once again, they found themselves wandering the halls of a labyrinthine complex but this time they were the aggressors, striking from all sides to overwhelm the beleaguered defenders. The orbital drop by the Stormtroopers had caught the Governor’s guards utterly unprepared, and the man himself was now being held by the Inquisition in his private quarters. The enemy still held many of the anti-air defences that dotted the spire, so the Inquisitor was unable to send the governor away, and the drop-trooper’s momentum would not last forever. In time, the enemy would rally and bring in fresh reinforcements. Outside the hive, in the streets of the city, the PDF was waging war on itself as Imperialist and Loyalist factions emerge amongst their ranks. Marshall Taimur hastily mobilised regiments from the neighbouring spires, but the PDF had been left in the dark over the planned coup and it would be some time before they could seize control over the approaches to the palace, and so secure the captive governor.

The fate of the battle was to be decided by acolytes far more senior than Amelia; she had been ordered to escort the Magos to the Governor’s private archives before anyone thought to erase them. Her team moved at a brisk walk through the halls of the palace encountering scattered groups of professional guardsmen alongside servants armed with decorative weapons taken from the walls. So far, they had yet to reach any real resistance, but there was no telling how long their luck would hold. The vox in Amelia’s ear came to life in a shower of static before receiving a message across the Inquisiton’s secure network.

‘Sigilite to all callsigns, report status.’

The Inquisitor was contacting his servants; he was loosely coordinating the attack from the throne room, giving his expert commanders a great deal of operational freedom whilst leaving himself free to throw his weight behind any offensives.

‘Overseer to Sigilite, Overseer-four delayed in mid-hive. All other units on schedule.’

Marshall Taimur’s regiments were moving through the hive in twelve-wheeled trucks, or on the public metro lines, but their Malcador tanks were unwieldy, and had been struggling with the esoteric jumble of roads that formed the bulk of Imperial hives.

‘Eagle to Sigilite, our advance has slowed and the enemy are counterattacking across our lines, Eagle-two-four is entirely cut off.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Coriolanus and his drop-trooper were charged with expanding the perimeter of the Inquisition, supported by the sisters of the Order of the Bloody Rose. They cut their way through the palace, fighting hand-to-hand in the servant’s passageways or trading shots across the indoor lake five hundred metres square. Whatever their skill, they were only a battalion and the further they pushed the thinner their ranks became.

Next to speak was a flurry of different callsigns, specific adepts tasked with securing important sites. Some had already achieved their objectives, whilst others were hopelessly bogged down and needed support. Amelia spoke with this group.

‘This is Rose-Four-Delta,’ the callsign for the fire-team Amelia now commanded, ‘proceeding to target, light resistance encountered and overcome.’

This minor duty done, Amelia turned her mind back to the task at hand. With a thought, she summoned Hope from his meal. The eagle was reluctant to leave his food uneaten, having failed to pry apart the breastplate, but settled himself with a quick eyeball as he flew away. The fire-team moved along the halls, taking care to avoid the main thoroughfares and the pitched battles that had engulfed them. Occasionally they would encounter isolated servants, or small squads of Household Guards moving to outflank the enemy, but they were easy prey.

At the centre of one of these networks of rooms lay a chamber heavy with incense and laden with thick carpets and exotic silk curtains. It contained a menagerie of indecently-dressed women attended to by eunuchs in simple jerkins and baggy pantaloons. Amelia was taken aback by the strange sight and was caught flat footed as the harem rose with a single terrifying shriek and charged the Inquisition, brandishing exotic daggers, ornate pistols or simply sprinting with bare fists. The Sisters were too professional to hesitate over such a sight and let loose a devastating hail of bolter fire that detonated in and amongst the charging crowd, sending silk veils flying amidst clouds of viscera. Corporal Al’Said joined in with his hellgun as the Magos opened up with exotic weaponry, flinging bolts of blue-white electricity and incandescent globules of phosphorous forwards even while readying her titanic axe.

The women charged forwards with reckless abandon, pressing on even with shattered limbs or gaping wounds. Their eyes were wide with manic fervour, and, even though they were being cut down in droves, their very bodies were shielding the rest of their number. Within moments they would meet the kill-team with their simple weapons and Amelia knew that she would be overwhelmed in a tide of flesh. She gathered her strength, funnelling the warp down through her staff and into her cowl, and her collar lit up with the tell-tale blue balefire of psychic energy while her eyes became mirrored spheres that seemed to reflect the black emptiness of the void. Power flowed into her, guided along arcane circuitry set down in sanctified wiring, and she sent it all into a single, titanic, shriek. The flames poured into her skull as her cry funnelled the essence of the warp into her foes. Psychically-imbued sound scythed its way through every mind in the charging crowd, tearing apart the delicate pathways of the brain and burning through their emotions and memories. They died quickly, bombarded by every emotion and memory they had ever felt reflected around their mind until it became little more than a meaningless sound of deafening scale. Like puppets with their strings cut, they collapsed.

Amelia stood before the dead, panting heavily and desperately leaning on her staff for support. Al’Said took her shoulder to keep her upright as the sisters strode over and through the bodies in their heavy power-armour, mowing down the eunuchs who had remained behind the charging crowd. Once Amelia had gathered herself together, she moved over the corpses far more carefully as the sisters, as she wore leather boots instead of a hermetically sealed suit. The eunuchs lay surrounded by dozens of empty needles; they had drugged the women to use as a rabid and expendable force. This manic charge was not the product of loyalty or fanaticism, but an artificial state induced by their masters. The sheer disregard for human life horrified Amelia, but she forced herself to move on. This slaughter was little more than a footnote in the larger battle, and Amelia’s duties lay elsewhere.

‘There is a false wall here, I can hear it calling out to me.’ Magos Zeletrass spoke in what may once have been a woman’s voice, heavily distorted by deliberate tampering and simple misuse.  
With barely a glance, the Magos induced the wall to open. Amelia was amazed; the Magos had gained control of the door whilst standing on the other side of the room, and she would have sensed the use of Psychic power. The door was indistinguishable from the wall, and Amelia would have walked past it without a second thought. The corridor behind was narrow, but too lavishly decorated to be a servant’s passage.

‘I think this passage is for the Governor, or other high-ranking dignitaries.’ Amelia mused.

‘Why would the governor need a secret passage in his own palace?’ The Magos questioned.

‘No doubt he wanted a way to visit his girls without any gossipers, or his wife, spotting him in the halls.’ Corporal Al’Said supplied by way of explanation.

A strange clicking briefly emanated from the Magos, it almost sounded like she was working over some great mystery, before she turned once again to the passageway. After staring at what appeared to be a blank patch of wall for ten seconds, she turned her vast bulk around to Amelia. Her face, what little of it hadn’t been replaced by a random assortment of sensors and cameras, was unnaturally pale, almost bone white, and parts seemed to have rotted away.

‘I have downloaded the blueprints for this passage. We will be able to bypass enemy lines and proceed almost directly to the archives.’

‘Excellent news. We’ll take the tunnels then. Sister Cassandra, take point.’

Amelia had made the effort to commit the names of her command to memory, but she made sure she wasn’t looking at any particular sister when she spoke. Though there were differences in their armour, the cut of the cloth or the placement of devotional beads for example, she wasn’t confident in her ability to identify individual members. The sisters hadn’t spoken since Amelia had asked them to introduce themselves, acting with a cold professionalism that unnerved her. 

As she followed Sister Cassandra through the labyrinthine tunnels, Amelia couldn’t help but wonder if their detached air had other causes than professionalism. Like her, the sisters had all been wards of the Imperial State brought up under the watchful eye of an Imperial organisation. Unlike her, the Sisters were all the daughters of servants of the throne who had fallen in the course of their duty, leaving their orphans to the Schola Progenia. Amelia could not help but wonder if their lifetime spent under the control of the Ecclesiarchy had soured their attitude towards Psykers. In truth, it had been an unusually long time since she had encountered overt hostility and suspicion over her powers. The majority of the Imperium would gladly see her burned at the stake, sanctioned or not, and the Inquisiton was very much the exception to the universal rule. Had she been rated lower she would have been shipped off to the Guard to throw bolts of energy until her mind collapsed and she met her end in the barrel of an ally’s pistol. Had she failed in some way on the black ships or in the Palace then she would be long dead ad remembered by no-one. Amelia did not remember what she had undergone in the Imperial Palace, she had forgotten it the moment she left, she only knew that she had survived because she had the good fortune to be born with strong psychic potential.

The secret passage was long and largely featureless, giving Amelia plenty of room to think, but eventually the Magos directed them off into a side passage. They emerged from a doorway artfully concealed with a portrait of the Governor looking regal in a military uniform with the spire silhouetted in the background. This was the inner sanctum of the palace, where the Governor and his personal staff of three hundred civil servants worked on the business of running a system-wide government. It was an artificially airy space of white marble and golden statues depicting local heroes or important noblemen. The battle below had not touched this place and the acolytes tracked dirty footsteps across the marble surface, marring the brilliant white with a mixture of ash and gore. The halls below had been quiet as only a warzone can be, a desperate silence interspersed with distant firefights, but up here was the hushed atmosphere unique to holy sites, libraries and the halls of power.

The kill-team moved with determined silence, save for the faint sound of hot air from the exhausts on the Sister’s backpacks and the occasional clicking of their boots on marble. Even Hope was silent, having perched himself on one of the Sister’s pauldrons. As they rounded a corner, they spotted a figure moving down the hall away from them. He wore the uniform of a servant and age had given him a stoop. He carried a paper folder in a determined shuffle away from them, utterly unaware of their presence. Amelia signalled the others to stop, and drew a long knife from her jacket. The blade was incredibly thin, made of psychically reactive metals, and bore no crossguard or handle. Though Amelia was not a telekinetic, the blade was designed to react with her powers, and she was able to bring it to a hover before her face. With a single flick of her hand, the blade was sent speeding forwards before embedding itself in the back of the old man’s neck. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees. With a second motion, the knife flew back out of his neck and into Amelia’s waiting hand. She wiped the blood off on her jacket before sheathing the knife and moving forward again, having the sisters stow the body in a nearby alcove.

Their luck could not hold forever, and soon they ran into a section of eight guardsmen who had been running through the corridors in two perfect files, moving to reinforce the front. Their Corporal offered a shout of surprise before his men spread to gather what cover they could behind some ornamental pillars. Amelia and Al’Said did the same while the sisters simply stood their ground and began firing. Instantly, the respectful quite of the palace descended into the orchestra of battle, the staccato crack of lasguns in symphony with the meaty thuds of bolters. Amelia drew her own laspistol and let off a few shots when she dared to poke her head out from behind cover. She couldn’t see the enemy from behind her pillar, cut she saw the sisters standing in defiance of the enemy even as pearly red lasbeams impacted against their power armour and burned through their black robes. Magos Zeletrass loomed behind them, having raised two of her four arms over their heads to fire again with her weapons. The polished marble of the hallway was lit up in a kaleidoscope of multicoloured energy as the two groups traded shots. The outcome was inevitable, but the noise of their fight would have echoed throughout the halls. Their presence had been noted.

They abandoned any pretence of subtlety, sprinting down the hallways and tearing down any doors that obstructed their path with the Magos’ titanic axe. They ran pursued at every turn by enemies, platoons of men mere metres behind them. Amelia sent waves of fear and confusion behind her, sending men staggering drunkenly against walls or weakening their resolve with a sense of creeping dread. Occasionally, the enemy would gain ground and Cororal Al’Said would discourage their advance with an expertly aimed burst of lasfire delivered backwards while at a dead sprint. Zeletrass ran with an unnatural stride on an unknown number of limbs, her weapons kept facing backwards and guided by rear facing sensors.

At long last, the doors to the archive came into sight. The Magos had driven them on the most direct route, and so the guards outside the archive were struck dumb when the wall they had been staring at dissolved in a shower of bricks and marble plates. They barely had time to react before twin bolt rounds detonated in their chests, pushing their breastplates outwards on both sides and leaving a spray of blood on the wall. Magos Zeletrass immediately set upon the door to the archives, using a thin mechadendrite to access the lock rather than the axe, so as not to destroy the precious information within. The door was built by the finest security company on the civilian market, but it paled in comparison to the Magos’ centuries of accumulated knowledge and code. It opened with barely a protest, and the acolytes rushed in before it sealed itself again. 

Inside was a towering room filled to the brim with cogitator stacks and adorned with braziers that poured out icy fog. Two bonded tech-adepts stood before a single terminal, looking at their guest with growing horror. They were killed by twin lasbolts from Amelia and Al’Said, explosive bolt rounds being too risky for use in this place, and Magos Zeletrass practically threw them aside in her rush to get to the terminal. A whole host of wires shot out of the folds of her robe until ever possible connection had been filled. Whilst she worked on the arcane rituals of the Mechanicus, one of the sisters took a melta-pistol to the door, sealing them in and securing them from the efforts of the household staff who even hammered against the door before he heat of the melta radiated through and their skin fused to the metal surface. Amelia gathered her powers, and sent such a wave of fear into the minds of their pursuers that they immediately fled the room in terror. Their position secure, she raised her hand to the combead in her ear.

‘Rose-Four-Delta to Sigilite, mission successful. We are holding position.’


	16. New World Order

In an ice-cold cogitator room in the uppermost tower of the greatest spire in Hive Castle the strike team waited, beneath towering data stacks bathed in a frigid mist. Magos Zeletrass thrived in the cold, having cast aside the last vestiges of her humanity long ago, it invigorated her machinery and sent her mind racing at a breakneck pace even as what little skin she still possessed began to crack in the cold. The Sisters of the Order of the Bloody Rose bore the cold with contemptable indifference. Their power armour separated them from the chill, and a lifetime spent in devotion to the God-Emperor had hardened their minds against any physical trial. Corporal Al’Said was a native of Tallarn, whose underground cities were only slightly cooler than the burning desert, and found the cold disconcerting, but he was insulated by layers of muscle and the massive bulk of his carapace armour. Amelia Lafayette lacked any such armour, save a cuirass that was now frozen to the touch, and shivered in silence upon a small chair in the corner of the room, clutching her psyber-eagle Hope for the mutual warmth of his feathers.

Beyond their small corner of the palace, the forces of the Governor were making their last desperate stand against the Inquisiton. They fought a three-dimensional battle across the entire administrative section of the spire, launching hit and run attacks from suspended motorways or making their stands in government offices. The palace itself still held, the Inquisiton limited to some small section of the uppermost towers, but the rest of the spire had descended into the unrestrained barbarity that characterises civil wars.

In the spire’s metro system crowds of terrified commuters were shoved aside as the Imperialist faction used the rail lines to ferry regiment after regiment into the city. They fought on the concourse as the hidden remnants of the Death Cults fired upon them from in and amongst the crowd. Civilians were killed in their thousands not by any deliberate malice, but simply because the fighting had emerged so suddenly. On the spiralling roads that encircled the hive and provided the main means of upwards movement the Malcador Siege tanks of the PDF simply drove over the gridlocked traffic, sending their crews forward to warn people out of their vehicles. These tanks struggled their way through the city, their colonel all too aware of the vital role they would play in the battle to come.

After brutal, close-quarters, fighting, the people had almost completely left the streets, and the governor’s loyalist guerrillas fled, perished or were simply ignored. The government district now swarmed with brown-uniformed PDF, storming through ancient seats of learning and power with an utter indifference. Their leader, the horrifying figure of Marshall Taimur and his plated grey armour, marched into the House of Lords, where ancient tradition decreed none may go armed, like a conquering hero and set up his command post for the siege. His men advanced from all directions, attacking along the broad avenues of the governments district, crawling their way through maintenance tunnels and rappelling down from the vaulted supports of the upper hive.

Their foe were a mixture of the green-uniformed Household Guard and the Metropolitan Constabulary, the governor’s hired thugs. Their positions ran around the entrance to the palace like a ring of forts and they endeavoured to make the towering buildings just as impregnable. The bulk-carriers of the omnibus lines were turned on their sides to block the roads and metal panelling was torn from interior walls to seal up the windows. From their position they fired on anyone foolish enough to stay in the open, whilst the Imperialists mirrored their approach in the opposite buildings. 

Despite these fixed positions, the battlefield was fluid. Small teams of infiltrators were sent forth by both sides, clearing and recapturing buildings with grenade and shotguns so that a force may lose the same building three times. Over time, the first Stormtroopers were flown in and they brought their own particular brand of viciousness. The Ministry for Energy had been the loyalists’ main bastion in Imperial territory until it was systematically broken by a single fire team of stormtroopers. They dropped in on grav-chutes from the supports above, before moving in practiced silence across the roof and onto a little used balcony. A melta bomb incinerated the security door and they moved through the building firing as they went. With their Hotshot Lasguns they ignored the limits of their eyes, firing at heat sources identified by the arcane circuitry in their helmets. They left the elegant structure riddled with holes, and filled with the scent of burning flesh.

Within the palace, the small battalion of forces that stood beside Inquisitor Heydrax himself found themselves overstretched at every turn and hampered by the Governor’s unconscious form. Eventually, the Inquisitor decided to abandon the idea of holding ground and divided his force into smaller strike teams to seize key points of the palace. The power-armoured mass of the Inquisitor led the charge, lasbolts bursting harmlessly across his armour as he cleaved through his foes with a vicious speed and a detached brutality. Acting separately, these small teams were able to capture the massed anti-air batteries that ringed the palace, and so secure a route for reinforcements. The Governor was borne away in the Inquisitor’s Thunderhawk even as the first reinfocements arrived on vector-thrust Valkyries or simple rotor aircraft.

The loyalists were now cut off from above and below and, as the first repurposed anti-aircraft missiles rained down on them from above, they withdrew from their extended positions to the palace itself. There they stayed, holding their ground with fatalistic tenacity, until their lines were finally broken. It was the tanks that tipped the balance. After a long and arduous climb, the colossal forms of Malcador heavy tanks rolled down the promenade. Lasbolts and stub round pinged of the first of the tanks, a Defender pattern, as it crossed the broad expanse of Unification Square before blasting open the great doors of the palace with its squat demolisher cannon. Unwilling to stop its advance, the tank then ground the great staircase into a powdery mess is it ascended through the ruined doors into the entrance hall itself. Its five heavy bolters spit fiery death in all directions as the first columns of infantry followed it. Though the defenders fought on, they were disheartened and proved easy pickings to the Imperialists.

In the aftermath of the battle the Adeptus Arbites launched raids across the planet, mopping up the last of the Loyalist sympathisers. The Government Sector lay in ruins, and with it lay the last remnants of the old order of Nova Iberia. It was only in the aftermath of this victory that anyone thought to unseal the strike team from their icy tomb.

The study had once belonged to the Governor’s seneschal. It was a cosy little room off the main avenues of the palace, with a desk and office chair upon which the old man would have engaged in the business of running the household, as well as a deep armchair before a large fireplace, where he would spend his evenings with a tot of amasec and some fine literature. The seneschal was dead, or soon to be, and Amelia had claimed the comfortable room for herself the moment she had staggered shivering from the cogitator room. She sat in the rich leather armchair before a roaring fire, created from the seneschal’s office chair and ignited with judicious use of a laspistol. Hope perched on the armrest, beads of water dripping down from his frozen wings, and the two of them simply waited in silence as their bodies were warmed back into some semblance of life. In time, her duties would inevitably draw her away from this cosy chair and warm fire but for now Amelia was simply enjoying a brief respite from all the events of the past few weeks.

Occasionally, faint footsteps sounded their way through the heavy oak door but none had yet broken her solitude, instead fading off into the distance. The palace that had so recently been filled with the soldiers engaged in a life or death battle now played host to a thousand adepts, tearing through its chambers in search of information and secrets, an act just as destructive to the beautiful complex as the pitched battle. The adepts were a source of both fascination and slight unease to Amelia; they seemed to live in a separate reality to her, one of numbers and data that they could pull information from just as Amelia could pull at the fabric of the warp. She was literate, her parents had seen to that, but her training had focused more on unlocking the secrets of her mind rather than using it for more mundane things such as complex mathematics or data analysis. Sometimes this gap in her knowledge unnerved her, but she had seen those who allowed those to be consumed by the search for knowledge, their backs hunched over, their eyes decayed into blindness and their skin permanently stained by a lifetime of ink.

As she thought on this, Amelia came to suspect that it is human nature to be consumed by your duties. The servants of the Administratum deliberately suppressed their individuality in favour of becoming creatures of pure data until it inevitably consumed them, Magos Zeletrass had cast aside her body and neglected her rotting flesh in order to gain closer communion with machines. She had seen countless soldiers throw away their lives in warfare; even if they returned, they still left some part of themselves on the battlefield. It was impossible to imagine the Inquisitor as anything less than he was now, what had happened to him to change him from an ordinary man into the calculating monster he had become, had he even noticed the change? Most terrifying to comprehend was the thought that she too might end up losing herself to the powers she could wield. Would her psychic abilities slowly drive her insane, or force her to withdraw from the world into her own mind?

A sharp tapping at the door interrupted brought her back to reality and she sighed as her train of thought slipped away. She was utterly unwilling to leave this comfortable place until it was absolutely necessary and so she bid the knocker to enter. To no great surprise, it was the diminutive figure of Adjutant Brazier who slipped in before stopping a respectful distance from Amelia. The girl had been brought in with the rest of the adepts, but Amelia had no idea how she had found her, perhaps it was some secret lore of the Administratum.

‘Madam, the Inquisitor requests your presence in the north solar.’

‘He’s asking after me?’ Amelia remained seated.

‘He’s called a meeting of all the senior staff to lay out the next moves.’

The chair was comfy, the fire was warm, and Amelia still didn’t want to move.

‘I don’t know where the north solar is.’

‘I can take you there, madam.’

Damn her, Amelia thought, damn her sense of direction and damn her sense of duty. Still, she was right. Amelia had larger obligations than this fireplace. With a thought, she directed Hope to perch on her shoulder, the eagle taking care to ensure his razorlike talons didn’t cut through his owner’s coat, before easing herself out of the armchair, feeling twice her age. She followed Helena in a fugue down twisting corridors and up spiralling stairs. The girl had been in the palace for two hours, at most, and yet was already unerringly familiar with the layout. The complex was vast, and it took them half an hour to reach the great stateroom that the Inquisitor had chosen as his meeting place. Helena left Amelia at the door; it was not her place to hear what was said within.

The solar had been built onto the side of one of the towers, and two thirds of its curved walls looked out onto the vast expanse of Hive Castle before ending in the rich blue where the sea met the sky. An ornamental piano lay amidst scattered musical instruments, and two tiers of seats had been built against the windowless section of wall, giving some indication as to the room’s prior purpose. The seats were already filling with the more mundane of the Inquisitor’s acolytes whilst those whose frames were too heavy, or too misshapen, for the wooden seats stood around on the floor. The low murmur of conversation permeated the room, but Amelia knew practically no one here. She spotted Magos Zeletrass standing before the benches and greeted the tech-priest before stepping up to the seats, picking a spot in the back with fewer acolytes around her.

Her efforts to isolate herself proved useless as a familiar, ornately dressed, figure swing into the seat beside her. She turned to she the wolfish grin of Interrogator Filburn, his bright white teeth silhouetted against his rich brown skin. Though the Inquisitor’s actions at the Raptor’s Nest had mollified her somewhat, she still resented him for taking over her investigation.

‘Good afternoon, Mademoiselle, I trust the battle was not too arduous.’ 

Amelia reflected threat she would have a far easier time hating the Interrogator if he wasn’t so inconveniently friendly and polite. There was something about his earnest happiness that was almost contagious.

‘I made it through alright, Interrogator, Magos Zeletrass found a secret passage, so we missed most of the fighting.’

The Interrogator laughed, a hearty and honest thing as far from condescension as possible.

‘I’d hardly say you stayed out of it, I saw you slot that pyrokinetic from across the room and from what I hear you took out a whole room of fanatics.’

‘I took out a room of drugged up slaves, if you want the truth. I spent most of the battle freezing to death in a sealed cogitator room, them the last hour warming myself back to life in front of a fire.’

‘Ah well, such are the realities of battle. I myself once had to fight my way through the engine decks of a cruiser, where only the Tech-Priests can tread. I must have sweated away half my bodyweight before I was done.’

Amelia burst into laughter at the image, his happiness really was infectious. Unfortunately, it was cut short as the Inquisitor entered the room, all the seated acolytes rising in respect before being waved back into their seats. The Inquisitor. Accompanied by his crusader bodyguards stood at the centre of the room, beside a grand piano, pausing to look out the vast windows at the city below before turning to address his followers.

‘The Governor has been taken to the Silent Observer for questioning, the Household Guard have been obliterated and the Government district is now under our direct control. This mission has been a resounding success, take pride in it.’

The Inquisitor’s words bolstered the spirits of his audience, and he paused for a moment to le the mood sink in.

‘But, in our moment of triumph we must not forget about the task that now lies ahead of us. In a single morning, we have destroyed the last remnant of the Government of this planet. We must move fast if we are to ensure all we are trying to build here does not fall apart amidst civil unrest.’

‘Our first priority is finding replacements for the civil servants who kept the various state organisations of this world running. Much of their duties can be temporarily seconded to the Administratum, and the Astropathic choir will send out a signal requesting more adepts to fill the gaps. It will, however, be some months before any can arrive.’

‘Within the hive, the Constabulary have proven themselves little more than the Governor’s private thugs. To that end, I am declaring Marshal Law and deploying the PDF, under the command of the Arbites, to maintain order.’

‘The next problem we face is more subtle, but will only get worse with time. We can secure the planet’s administration by patching up the gaps, but the planet’s leadership has been utterly obliterated. The House of Lords, Nova Iberia’s legislature, lies empty, its members dead or in hiding and with the Governor taken the planet lacks any executive.’

‘To remedy this, I am creating a Provisional Government comprised of influential figures from across the system. This planet holds a large number of highly influential people who, due to their common heritage, have been denied overt authority and as such resented the previous government. Those of you not engaged in critical infrastructure work will be sent to recruit these people to a council of oligarchs, whilst the Governorship is to be given to Rear-Admiral Said, as the senior most surviving military figure.’

‘We have gained a wealth of knowledge from this place, but it will take our analysts some time to decode it. The mystery of this world must wait until we have brought it back to some semblance of order.’

What followed was a long meeting as the Inquisitor listed off each acolyte’s individual task. Some were to go to government departments, to assume temporary control over the planet’s administration. The harvest still needed to be brought in, and the steel tithe was almost ready to be sent off world. Others would take up command of PDF regiments, enforcing martial law across the entire planet and continuing the war against the remnants of the nobility. The remainder were tasked with recruiting the planet’s new elite. A list of names was displayed with candidates from all walks of life, PDF officers, local government officials, wealthy businessmen and even the leadership of organised crime on the planet. The remaining acolytes, Amelia included, were sent to recruit these figures into the service of the Imperium if they could be found, and if they proved trustworthy.


	17. The Underhive

An ancient Terran philosopher once created a model of society based around a vast pyramid. He theorised that humanity naturally structured itself into a hierarchy based around a system of duties and obligations. In this great pyramid each level is smaller than the one beneath it, and enjoys more privileges in line with their increased sense of obligation. At the peak stands a single man to whom all others are bound by duty, but so too is he bound by obligation to maintain their holdings. At the base stands the teeming masses, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Though they may suffer, they are the most numerous and their duty is spread over many shoulders. Without them, the whole edifice comes crashing down.

The Hive Cities of the Imperium are this theory put into terrifying reality. The spires taper upwards until ending in the solitary palatial complex of the ruling class. Beneath those colossal heights the hives are like their own, self-contained, society. The vast majority of Hive Castle will never have left the city, and many may not be aware that there is any part of the world that is not formed of steel and rockcrete. They live in a horizonless world of labyrinthine architecture that renders maps largely useless, their days are spent on suspended railways travelling endlessly between kilometres of office space and the towering hab-blocks they call home. Their food is shipped in from across the planet and processed in vast factories to bring out every possible nutrient but even that is not enough and tens of millions rely upon the Administratum grain ration to feed their growing families. The air they breathe has been filtered through the arcane machinery of the Mechanicus to ensure that life-giving oxygen reaches the very heart of the hive. 

Hives are built, rather than growing naturally, and so there is a space at the very base of the hive where the gargantuan support pillars meet the abandoned ruins of the city that came before. This Underhive is a warren of twisted architecture bent by time and neglect into a ruin more dangerous than any battlefield. The denizens of this place do not contribute to the hive, they do not factor into census reports or tithe allocations, instead eking out a miserable existence eating algae or mould grown besides pools of stagnant runoff, or preying on the hive’s vermin for meat. These people have no place in the pyramid, but they are too far removed to be considered parasites. They take nothing, instead claiming what little resource flows down from the lands above. Lands that, to them, may as well be another world.

Their world is one of tribal violence and the struggle for survival. It is a land populated by those who fall between the cracks, the destitute, the desperate or those seeking to hide themselves. The most these people see of those above is the occasional figure of a death cultist, unnaturally lithe shadows that bring swift and random death to even the mightiest of warriors. It is a land of mutants, those unfortunate souls whose bodies have been corrupted by the warp into disgusting deviations from the holy human form. Most revel in their horrific state, but a select few are aware of how far they have fallen and many of the Imperium’s most devout subjects are those poor fools who pray in vain for salvation. The truth is that this is no divine curse, nor the result of unfortunate genetics, but rather the by-product of the great power generators mingling with the sheer psychic mass of humanity that dwelt above them.

Amelia could feel this mass as the Valkrie twisted and turned around support pillars and through the ruins of some ancient city. Every human, save blanks, had some form of presence in the warp and when humanity is concentrated into one place their minds can resonate off each other to create a sort of gestalt field. The lower down in the spire, the greater mass of psychic energy lies above you and the greater the risk of that mass corrupting the human form. This far down Amelia felt like she was working underwater, the air was sluggish with psychic energy that pooled in a great mass, neither chaotic nor divine. Further up, this miasma amplified people’s emotions, inflaming mass hysteria or people’s inherent violent tendencies, but in these depths its crushing weight instead created an air of futility, only amplified by the decrepit surroundings. The only people who lived down here were the forgotten, the destitute or the desperate, and only one of those categories merited the attention of the Inquisiton.

Michelangelo Borgia was not born to nobility, but he harboured ambition that outstripped the circumstances of his birth and had dedicated his life to the acquisition of power. He had begun in the streets of the Lower Hive, where he had bullied his local gangs into submission until he controlled the narcotics trade in and out of his small duchy in the lower city. The Ragged Duke, the people took to calling him, and he leaned into his new identity with eager ambition. From this small foothold his empire spread out of the hive and into the countless refineries and warehouses that filled the miles of naval and orbital dockyards that ringed the hive, using the rudimentary workers unions to seize control of factories in a shadowy war that went largely unseen by the wider hive. He kept his men’s allegiance secret until, in a single night, the entire docks district was shut down by strike action and the Governor’s enforcers were overwhelmed by armed mobsters. His tactics succeeded in earning him a slice of the vast revenue that flows through the docks, filtered through shell companies and deputies, but it also made him public enemy number one.

The PDF were deployed to his Duchy and the Ragged Duke was deposed as a sixteenth of the hive descended into blood and fire. He fled from the public eye into the Underhive, where he found his home amongst the mutant clans, who he supplied with arms and armour in exchange for their loyalty. The docks still belonged to him, though that could never be proven, but he would never again be the grand Duke who toured his kingdom on a chariot, surrounded by the cheering of his supporters. Since then, he had waged a secret war against the Nobility and their Death Cults, sending teams of mutant killers up into the hive to bomb Constabulary precincts, raid noble houses, assassinate his enemies and fight the Death Cults on their own ground. The Inquisition believed that this loss of power had wounded him, and that he would relish a chance to return to the public eye. They also believed that his relationship with the Mutants was one of convenience, and that he would cut his ties for a chance at the power he so obviously craved. They also knew him to be a competent administrator and strategist, and so Amelia had been dispatched to the depths of Hive Castle to find him and make an offer he can’t refuse.

‘These tunnels are getting too narrow for us Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ll have to proceed on foot’

The crackly voice of the pilot emerged through the intercom, breaking Amelia away from the psychic miasma and bringing her firmly back into the here and now.

‘Understood, set us down as far in as you can, then withdraw. We’ll signal you when we need a pickup.’

‘Roger, setting you down now. We’re around four miles away from the settlement, providing our maps are accurate.’

‘Alright everybody, respirators on.’

The order war largely redundant. Amelia shared the Valkyrie with a squad of ten stormtroopers, led by Corporal Al’Said, and they all wore respirators built into the helmets of their carapace armour. Indeed, Amelia had never seen any stormtrooper outside of his helmet while on shift, even her own men had only removed theirs once they were off duty. The final passenger was her Adjutant, Helena Brazier, and here the order was a necessity. The girl still wore her ubiquitous grey robes, which Amelia doubted would hold up to the difficult terrain of the Underhive, and her bulky respirator served to hide the naked terror that sat plainly on her face. She had grown up in a hive, and viewed the Underhive in much the same way the Imperium viewed the Eye of Terror.

Amelia clasped the buckles on her own rebreather, a mask that covered her face but left the rear of her head free, so as not to interfere with the cabling of her psychic hood. Breathing through the mask was difficult, there was a strange feeling of resistance as her breaths drew against the filters, but it would see her through the Underhive safely. The only air that came this far down was the scant breeze that drifted in from outside, or recycled air from the hive above, and though much of it was safe for a human to breathe there were pockets of deadly gas in the depths, and the air carried a horrific cocktail of diseases.

This fetid air rushed in as the Valkyrie set down, rushing into the opening doors to match the aircrafts lower pressure. Hazy light from the Valkyrie’s running lamps illuminated their surroundings. They had set down atop the roof of an ancient hab-block that, by the ravages of time, now lay level with the surrounding ground. Vast beams of hardened steel and ferrocrete rose out of the surface at regular intervals surrounded by great hills of sediment that stretched upwards in a man-made amalgam of stalagmites to meet their counterparts descending from the ceiling. The whole cavern was barely lit by running lights that stretched along the base of the hive, placed not for the benefit of the underhivers but rather the use of the Public Works Department who would on occasion descend into these depths in armed bands a hundred men strong to verify the integrity of the hive.

Before Amelia rose a veritable mountain of twisted metal, the remains of some ancient hivequake, where a section of the Lower Hive had collapsed. The vast edifice was honeycombed by twisting tunnels where roads and corridors had been partially buried. The mass blocked their gunship from the largest known settlement and Amelia waved the pilot off. Scraps of muck and dust were scattered as the aircraft rose before turning on its axis and flying off into the hive, back towards the glorious light of day.

Its departure left the team in the half-light of twilight and the light filters in the lenses of their respirators activated, enhancing the low light and giving their eyes an eerie green glow. It was in this strange twilight that Amelia checked her map. The government had collected survey data this far down, but the most recent information was a century out of date. The map she carried on a small datapad had been compiled based on paper maps captured off the Death Cults as well as the intelligence of the only one of the Inquisitor’s covert operatives to have been operating in the underhive. The information was still largely speculative, but it did record the location of Waterfall, the settlement where she was to meet this undercover operative, and her current location, meaning all she had to do was find a route between the two points.

A quick study of the imposing ruin before her identified a motorway that had fallen on its side, resulting a tall tunnel with only minor structural damage. With crampons, spikes and lengths of rope they were able to clamber up the slopes of rubble and into the motorway wreckage. Her stormtroopers took to the task with stoic professionalism but Helena suffered a great deal on the ascent. Her robe, as Amelia had guessed, was repeatedly caught on spars of metal and the base began to resemble frayed rags. This stretch of motorway had survived because it had been built into the side of a long stretch of hab-blocks and so Amelia strode along the side of a vast building, occasionally stepping over panes of shattered glass or around the wreckage of vehicles. To her right rose the four-lane motorway, its surface cracked from the great weight that now rested upon it as much as from the collapse itself. The tunnel was pitch black, save for the beams of light that emanated from underslung or handheld torches, and great shadows stretched out from twisted wreckage. Occasionally a beam of light would pass into the open windows beneath their feet and Helena would shudder at the unburied bodies that lay within, killed by the fall or starved in the aftermath and little more than skeletons now. 

Five miles in the highway they had been following ended in a twisted wall of steel and concrete that completely blocked their path. Auspex scanners were brought out to scan the surrounding walls. The handheld devices were normally used to identify moving targets from behind walls, but here they were better suited to identifying empty space, to find a usable route through. The most satisfactory option lay beneath their feet and the remaining panes of glass were smashed away from a broken window. The team helped each other through the gap and down the eight-foot drop from wall to wall. The team proceeded quickly through the one room hab into the corridor beyond, each taking care not to dwell on the crib of painted plastic that lay crushed against the oven. The corridor beyond was not meant to be travelled sideways and they crawled in the meter and a half of space that separated the two walls. Eventually, they came across an elevator shaft that had been built into the support pillar of the building itself, and as such was largely intact. It lay laterally along the wall of rubble, and as such would bring them no closer to their destination, but by traversing its length Amelia was able to sound out another passage that would bring them the right way. 

Amelia first felt their presence as she led her men through the twisted remains of a commercial block where the better off residents of the Lower Hive had gone to purchase the simple luxuries of the common masses of the Imperium: clothes, toys or sturdy footwear. As they clambered across the wreckage, she began to feel the presence of other minds in the distance, and of a single figure watching them from a great distance. Seemingly satisfied by what it saw, this mind moved stealthily back to its fellows, who began to slowly creep into the surrounding shops some hundred metres ahead.

Amelia spoke, and her voice was carried through microbeads to the rest of her team.

‘There are twenty-four locals planning to ambush us as we pass the grocers, an equal number on the left and right as well as two in the ceiling.’

‘Roger’ came Corporal Al’Said’s reply in a detached, professional, tone ‘Act like we haven’t noticed them. Charlie fire team take the right, delta take the left. Ma’am, can you deal with the two in the ceiling?’

‘Certainly.’ Amelia spoke with unfeigned confidence.

They moved forward seemingly unaware of their ambushers, even Helena managed to contain the fear that ran rampant through her mind. The very moment the enemy seemed ready to attack, Corporal Al’Said gave a single word of command and twin grenades were sent flying to the left and right. They burst mid-air in a flash of light and sound that effectively blinded their ambushes whilst the sophisticated light filters of the Inquisition detected and compensated for the sudden change. In an instant the stormtroopers dropped to one knee and began firing into the shops, catching the two or three figures appointed as lookouts before the second, live, grenades detonated and they leapt to their feet, storming the building with utter ruthlessness and mowing down the mutants within.

Mutants they were, Amelia came to realise. Each ragged figure sported some disgusting oddity, from a man whose bare torso exposed scales rather than skin to a five-eyed woman who stood on two stumps of bone below her knees. With a single blast from her laspistol she gutted the first of her two targets. Her enemy had been preparing an improvised grenade to toss down and the repurposed tin can detonated in his twisted arms, sending much of the ceiling crashing down and depositing Amelia’s watcher onto the ground before her. The mutant child could not have been older than twelve, though it was hard to tell, and short spines of bone jutted out of her at irregular intervals. She made to stab Amelia with a dirk of salvaged steel, but the barrel of a laspistol in her face and a blast of psychic energy convinced her to stay on the ground.

The sound of a gurgling scream being cut short by a lasbolt informed Amelia that the Stormtroopers had done their job, and the armoured figures soon began to scramble back over the rubble. The mutant child, surrounded by masked figures with green glowing eyes, was evidently terrified and prostrated herself at Amelia’s feet, begging for mercy in a bastardised low gothic. Amelia built a subtle psychic aura around her men to make them even more terrifying and, as the girl cringed back in fear, she leant closer to the child’s face.

‘What is your name, girl?’ Her voice was distorted by the mask into an unsettling rasp.

‘Luka, master. Luka begs your mercy. Luka didn’t know your strength.’ 

The child had taken to clutching her knees to her chest, and Amelia could see her spines drawing blood as they met her skin.

‘Does Luka know the way to Waterfall?’

‘Yes master, Luka’s tribe went there often to trade treasures from the wall, or slaves captured in it…’

Those last words were spoken in a hushed whisper, and Amelia could feel the conflict in the child’s mind. She didn’t want to tell the warriors her tribe meant to sell them as slaves but she was too afraid of them to omit anything.

‘You will take us there.’ This was not a question, but Luka still felt the need to respond.

‘Yes, kind master! Luka’s life is yours!’

The poor child was true to her word and led them through the twisting tunnels of the hive with the practiced air of a native in this strange land. At times Amelia would feel Luka’s shock at how the Inquisitor’s party staggered their way through the tunnels, reserving a sort of disdain for Helena’s amateurish efforts, but she was far too afraid of her captors to make any comment. She brought them away from the commerce centre and into what must have been her home; a few dozen old mattresses surrounding a fire built into an old rail station. Trinkets and tribal fetishes decorated the walls and Amelia could feel tears form on Luka’s face as she was reminded of her bereavement. She wiped the tears away with a scrap of clothing, determined to prove her strength to her new masters so they wouldn’t kill her too. From here the path was better trodden, and the fire team was able to move through the rest of the wreckage at a brisk walk. It had been the better part of nine hours since they first finished the climb to the motorway and the sudden sight of open space struck them all dumb.

The ‘Wall’, as Luka called the collapsed section of hive, looked over a vast cavern that could have almost been agrarian. The landscape was all twisted metal and heaps of refuse but much of it was covered in a green moss that glowed ever so faintly. Water pooled in the shattered remains of old buildings or flowed down streets and natural channels in small rivers and streams. The flow originated from a cascading waterfall that fell from an enormous pipe that stretched across the diameter of the cavern some twenty kilometres long. This was the old river whose banks the city of Castle had originally been founded on, caged by the Mechanicus in this vast pipe to keep the hive supplied with water, and to keep the ground firm beneath their feet. The town of Waterfall squatted around a great lake into which a torrent of water cascaded down from a leaky joint. Somewhere amongst those ramshackle hovels of repurposed metal was her contact, the first step in finding the Ragged Duke amongst this man-made hell.


	18. Shantytown

Waterfall was not a large town by any measure, perhaps two thousand people dwelled within its walls, but to the residents of the Underhive it was the largest settlement any of them had ever seen. Food was scarce this far down, water doubly so. Waterfall was an oasis in this desert. Its lakes, rivers and streams drew life of all sorts from across the hive. Strains of algae or moss grew on every surface and in every pool, harvested by the denizens of the shantytown, whilst innumerable beasts were drawn to the pools to be hunted by the cunning or the strong. From Waterfall these rivers flowed outwards through cracks and tunnels to fuel innumerable smaller hamlets across a great part of the Underhive. To that end it was fiercely protected and the strongest warlords within fifty miles had sworn to defend Waterfall should it ever be threatened.

Consequently, Waterfall grew even larger as it became neutral ground for people to trade and disputes to be resolved. Society evolved from a purely agrarian character into something altogether more civilised, and the streets teemed with traders, clansmen and mercenaries all seeking to carve out their own stretch of the Underhive. As such, mercenaries brought down from the lower city were an uncommon but not unheard of sight. Even so, the presence of ten Stormtroopers in full Carapace armour would have been a little hard to explain and so the squad was left in disguised shelter two miles out of town whilst Prime Agent Lafayette, Corporal Al’Said and Adjutant Brazier, disguised with tattered rags and improvised weapons, followed their diminutive guide into the settlement itself.

The paths to the settlement were well trodden, with primitive bridges built over rivers or swamps and a clear-cut footpath running along the most accessible routes. Far ahead of her Amelia could see a kind of cart, made from the flatbed of a utility vehicle being pulled by a lumbering lizard. A small cluster of traders and guards surrounded the vehicle, which was piled high with generators, panes of glass and other salvage. On other paths similar groups occasionally moved in and out of the settlement. This was the largest single concentration of people in the Underhive and Luka looked back at her captors expecting to see awe and wonder on their faces. To her surprise and disappointment, the masked people offered no reaction whatsoever to the town.

Amelia made note of the armed enforcers that wandered the streets, burly men armed with primitive weapons, a mixture of humans and mutants. The settlement had no walls, protected as it was by ancient oaths, and these thugs kept order inside the city as well as hunting beyond its walls to keep the larger predators under control. The smells of rust, waste and unidentifiable cooking forced their way through the filters on Amelia’s gas mask, a smell only slightly worse than that of a lower-hive slum. To her surprise strings of electric lightbulbs ran on wires between the buildings like a kind of bunting and artificial light shone through the cracks of some of the better made shacks.

Water was everywhere. It was caught on rooftops by corrugated iron gutters and the streets rested on walkways built atop winding canals. Beneath her feat she would often hear the sound of oars striking water as fishermen moved to and fro, dodging between barges laden with heavier goods. The people of this strange place were a mix of human and mutant, an oddity even in the undercity, and almost everyone was armed, even if all they had was an improvised knife tied to their belt. Luka served as their guide through the winding crowds, moving with such a natural grace that Amelia feared she would slip away from them in the crowds, ducking and weaving through the masses just as she had moved through the tunnels in the Wall. Amelia sent a small probe of psychic energy into the girl’s mind, not enough to harm or cause excessive distress but of sufficient strength to remind the child that she was being watched even if she was out of sight.

Waterfall was a commercial city, and every street was lined with street hawkers of varying shapes and sizes. At dozens of little stands food was fried, baked, boiled and stewed, filling the air with chaotic scents. Most of the stores sold some variety of lizard, small rat-like lizards roasted in their entirety and served on a stick or unidentifiable slabs of meat served in rolls of what seemed to be bread, while others seemingly cultivated insects for sale as caramelised snacks or a staple food. One of the sturdier buildings radiated heat from great clay ovens and a dozen labourers worked in the heat, kneading a mixture of moss and water into some semblance of dough before placing their brown loaf into the oven. Neither Amelia nor her followers had the inclination to try any of these unique foods, and even if they did then they had nothing to barter for them.

This far down the only people who would appreciate an Imperial Throne would be the lower hive mercenaries who came down here to make easy money from the local warlords, or those warlords powerful enough to reach into the upper city. Waterfall ran largely on a barter system; Amelia spotted the cart from earlier outside a glassmakers workshop, a young man accepted the shards of broken glass in exchange for rounds of ammunition before bringing them to his father who would melt them down in his kiln before blowing and carving ornate bowls with a chitinous hand that seemed immune to the heat.

There was the occasional sign of the world above this one; Amelia occasionally received nods from tattooed gangsters, one up-hiver recognising another. They wandered the streets in small pairs, most sporting some manner of rebreather to protect them from the polluted air. No two were alike; some wore tank tops or went bare chested to expose a web of tattoos that covered their torso and face whilst others hid themselves beneath thick leathers and long stormcoats. What unified them was their incongruity. Everything from their height to their gait was subtly out of place in their surroundings, and if it was obvious to Amelia then the difference must have been even more apparent for the locals. There were some more grizzly reminders of the hive above; occasionally Amelia would spot gibbets hanging over the streets from which the corpses of Death Cultists stood crucified. These displays were few and far between, a testament to the skill of these cultists, but they served as a bloody reminder that this was a wild and savage place.

The main road of Waterfall, if it could be called such, ringed the lake into which the endless waters that had given the town its name fell in a mesmerising cascade. The light of innumerable bulbs played across this torrent of water creating a kaleidoscope of colour that was reflected back onto the surrounding buildings. To the people of Waterfall this lake was something approaching sacred, and the road ran all the way around the lake without being interrupted by buildings. The message was clear, this water belonged to everyone. The most important buildings in town fronted onto this road, most notably the tall tower of the Guardhouse, where a permanent vigil was kept over the town’s surroundings, and the squat hall where the governing council of Waterfall held court.

Luka led them around the lake, at one point passing through a great square filled with cages. This was a marketplace of a different kind, and Amelia found her questioning gaze met by dejected humans and mutants, or half-starved beasts of prey and burden. This square was the domain of the flesh-merchants, men and women who saw to the sale of trained beasts and people alike. Amelia watched as a tribe of mutants led a coffle of their kin up to one merchant, who offered them a crate of fine scaled pelts in exchange. Most of the slaves were in a sorry state and were bought in bulk to serve as expendable labourers for high-risk salvage crews but the occasional strong male or attractive female were brought onto a metal auction block to be sold off individually. Amelia could feel Luka quicken her pace as they crossed the square. Had her tribe overcome Amelia’s team, a laughable notion, then Amelia might have found herself on that auction block. Amelia sensed Luka’s fears as if she had been shouting them; she had been taken by Amelia and was terrified that her new captors meant to sell her off once they no longer needed a guide.

In truth, she wasn’t sure what to make of the girl. She was in desperate need of some kind of guide in this unfamiliar territory, but could she trust the child not to betray her? She watched as Luka guided them through the crowds with a kind of dancer’s grace, the result of a lifetime clambering through the ruins she called ‘the Wall’. The child was unnaturally pale, even for the Underhive, and her hair was the same bone white as the spines that covered her body. She was dressed in rags, and the spines tore her clothing even as she moved. They were small, but razor sharp, and looked to be an extension of her skeleton rather than a surface growth. For now, she seemed too terrified of Amelia to attempt escape but time would tell if she would prove useful in the long run.

The Inquisitor’s operative in the Underhive had asked Amelia to meet him at the Overhang in Waterfall, and Luka had identified that as one of the city’s more organised taverns. Indeed, Amelia could see the Overhang up ahead, so named because its top floor hung over the path that ringed the lake. Its name was spelled out in miscellaneous neon lettering that must have been worth a fortune as salvage. Golden light spilled from windows formed of reclaimed glass in small panes held together by bands of gilded metal. The gilt finery and obvious care that went into the maintenance of the building sat at odds with the miscellaneous scraps of metal and concrete that formed the walls, but it was clear to all that this building was a point of pride amongst the dismal town.

The entrance to the Overhang was guarded by a man whose exaggerated musculature could only have come about through mutation. At the sight of this guardian, Luka wilted and turned back to Amelia with a pained expression. Amelia simply walked past the child and, with a little psychic manipulation, the muscle too. Behind her she could hear the patter of tiny feet as Luka followed her in, ducking behind Helena and Al’Said. The inside of the tavern would be best described as homely. There was no ornately polished wood, for no trees grew in beneath the hive, but metal, plastic, concrete and carpets woven from some unknown fibres all combined to create a warm, cosy effect only amplified by the electric heater placed in an imitation fireplace. The room rang with a dozen conversations and the occasional chink of glasses whist a group of troubadours serenaded the room with strings and a hurdy-gurdy from atop a small raised platform and a fool jingled miserably about the place. 

The customers were mostly lower-hive mercenaries or the distinguished servants of local warlords come to Waterfall on business. It was as much a place of commerce as the rest of the town, and the tables played host to hushed conspirators plotting their next venture. Psychic trickery kept Amelia’s group from being noticed until they had moved to the upper floor and taken a seat at a remote table that looked out a great bay window onto the tumbling waterfall.

Corporal Al’Said was sent to the bar for a round of drinks, fortunately the Overhang was upmarket enough to accept Thrones, and he returned bearing four-pint glasses of a liquid that was the same basic colour as beer. The trio sat by the windows and attempted to drink enough of their ‘beer’ to make it seem like they’d been there a while. Poor Helena managed a few sips before she began heaving, so Amelia discretely poured part of her glass out the window. Luka stood off to one side, pressed against the wall, and tried to make herself unnoticeable. To her credit, she was doing a tolerable job of blending into the background and had Amelia not been psychic she may well have forgotten the girl was there. With the illusion complete, Amelia gradually dropped her psychic veil until they changed from an invisible presence to simply part of the scenery.

After they had waited for an hour without results Al’Said was sent to the bar again and, within another half hour, a waitress, whose youthful good looks were marred by a withered third arm bound against her chest, brought them three plates of lizard steak and mashed potato in a gravy that was assuredly also made of lizard. The food was surprisingly nice, though Helena was again reluctant and her leftovers were given to Luka. The food was somewhat rich from the girl, who was used to a diet of moss, insects and condensation, but she wolfed it down with childlike eagerness. It was as they had cleared their plates that Amelia saw a man descending down the stairs from the third floor.

His ragged, rust coloured, stormcoat and scrap metal armour made him seem like a well-off mutant warrior and his insectoid eyes and hair that more closely resembled a cluster of chitinous tendrils further completed the image. The rest of the patrons would occasionally glance his way before dismissing him as just another mutant merc in a city of mutant mercs. What the patrons would not see, but was as clear to Amelia as an open book, was the way he used his insectoid eyes to constantly scan the room like a man on the run, and how his mind was far sharper than any denizen of Waterfall she had seen so far. His eyes passed over Amelia twice, gliding off the subtle psychic wards she had been emitting before she dropped them just long enough for him to make eye contact.

Without saying a word, he pulled out the fourth chair at their table and sat himself down. As he did, Amelia noticed that his legs, as much as could be inferred from under the coat, seemed to have an extra joint in them like the hind legs of some animals. Without acknowledging his hosts, he flagged down a passing waitress and ordered some local drink with an unpronounceable name that arrived in a pint glass a few moments later. The drink was an unnaturally green colour, and the man gazed into his drink with morbid fascination, running his finger through the condensation that rested on the side of the glass. Only when the drink had passed his obscure standards did he look up to acknowledge Amelia.

‘A beautiful sight, isn’t it,’ he said, gesturing out the window to the cascading waterfall ‘more beautiful than the Governor’s flower garden.’ 

‘I hear the Governor’s flowers have wilted, and his garden is now uglier than the Undercity.’ 

This was no idle chatter, but the sign and countersign by which they were supposed to identify each other.

‘What would you have looked at if I hadn’t picked the window seat?’ Amelia mused.

‘The fool and her multicoloured suit. All things considered; it feels much more honest this way. Donovan Jeapes, our employer’s man in the Underhive’

‘Amelia Lafayette, chief dogsbody. I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Somehow I think you’d remember.’ He smiled, exposing teeth that seemed far too black to be bone. ‘In truth, I stay away from the rest of you lot. Especially the Sisters, they really don’t like me, which I suppose is fair enough.’ He sighed.

‘But enough about me, you’re here about the Ragged Duke. From what I learned; he’s been rather busy since he settled here twenty years ago. He first made his mark when he defeated the Sons of Dis, an old and violent mutant clan, and made a gift of four great generators to Waterfall. That got him a reputation as a feared warlord, though no one knew where exactly his base was.’

‘What everyone does know is that he takes in promising mutants and sends them into the Upper Hive to strike back against the Ghost Women, the twist name for Death Cultists.’

‘Twist?’ Amelia interrupted.

‘Mutant word for mutant. Poor bastards think it gives them some point of pride.’

‘You don’t think that way? Amelia mused.’

‘I got no illusions ‘bout what I am. I’m a seven-foot-tall bug man, a freak of nature. I’ll never be able to walk up there and I know no amount of prayer is going to make me into something I aint, but I once heard about the Emperor at the top of the hive and I figure that if I work for him, he might not turn me away when I die.’

He turned his head to the ceiling with an almost reverent air as if he could will away the miles of steel that lie between him and the sky.

‘The Emperor’s on Terra,’ Amelia countered, ‘not the top of the hive.’

‘I know that now, obviously. This aint the hive I was born in. But if you’re going to survive down here then you need to understand that for these people there is nowhere else, the hive is all there is and it’s the same for most of the Lower City. The Imperium is too big for most of us to understand, and that’s why I fight for it.’

Silence met his words.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, a little embarrassed by his outburst, ‘I’ve been down here for a year now, went down with the covert squads, just in case one of you types needed a bit of info on what’s going on down here. A couple months ago I hear you’ve landed and I’m to send everything I have on the Death Cults, easy enough, then two days ago I get another message you need to meet the Ragged King within a couple of days.’

‘I’m sure it’s been difficult,’ Amelia continued, not really caring, ‘but did you get what I need?’

‘Course, I’m no slacker. See, no one knows where he hides out and how he can move his guys about so quickly. Turns out he’s in the Old City. Y’see, when they put this hive here some two-thousand years ago they built it on top of the old capital. Most of the good stuff got pulled out, but the Duke must have got the old metro running again. He’s holed up in the old Ministry of Defence, specifically the tunnels beneath the building. Easiest access route is only twenty miles from here, you’ll need these coordinates.’

He slipped a scrap of paper across the table, and Amelia entered the ten-figure grid reference into her data-slate.

‘There’s no way you’d make it twenty miles as you are, not after travelling all the way from the other side of the wall. I’ve took the liberty of booking you a couple of rooms here for the night.’

‘You’re not coming with us?’ Amelia was shocked, she had hoped her contact would tag along, someone with local knowledge would be invaluable.

‘Not a chance.’ Donovan laughed as he said it.

‘My time down here’s done, I’ve been ordered to make my way back. I’m the only covert asset still in the field, and I’m long overdue for a debriefing. Nothing can be done about it, even if I wanted to. Still, you’ll be alright.’

‘Well, thanks anyway.’ Amelia said, though she didn’t mean it

Donovan nodded, downed his green drink in one long gulp, and staggered out of the tavern after handing two iron keys to Amelia. The keys were for two rooms on the third floor that overlooked the waterfall. By Underhive standards the rooms were luxurious, both featuring beds with actual matrasses. Long windows let in the kaleidoscopic light of the waterfall and each room had a small bathroom with fittings salvaged from some hotel. Al’Said and Helena took one room whilst Amelia helped herself to a large double bed. Amelia had forgotten Luka, who followed her sheepishly into her room, and offered the girl a blanked only to have it turned away, for fear of her spines damaging the cloth. Instead she simply curled herself up at the foot of Amelia’s bed and fell almost instantly into a deep sleep.


	19. Faith

Day and night were little more than abstract concepts within the depths of a Hive City. In the Lower City, far from the light of the sun, the streets were illuminated by great lights suspended from the ceiling that only served to accentuate the shadows of the warren of alleyways that branched off the thoroughfares. In the better off areas these lights would dim and brighten in sync with the rising and falling of the sun, but the business of the hive would not stop for something as insignificant as night. The lower city was therefore kept constantly illuminated, save for areas that have fallen into neglect or disrepair, so that the ever-present enforcers may keep some semblance of order and the people may work around the clock through the clever use of shifts. The prize possession of each family would often be a small clock by which they could measure the passing of hours, and periodic hymnals broadcast over the public tannoy served to remind the workforce when it was time to work, pray or sleep. In the Underhive, even the concept of time had been corrupted. This far down, the people lived in perpetual twilight and timepieces were the preserve of only the wealthiest of chieftains. Most underhivers simply rose and slept according to the needs of their own body.

And so it was that when Amelia awoke, prompted by a buzzer built into her wristwatch, she found her room lit by the same mesmerising patterns of light from the waterfall. The sound of the mutants and humans of Waterfall going about their daily business seemed largely unchanged from the night before. As she stared out of her window, she was greeted by the same kaleidoscopic shape of the great waterfall at the centre of the town as it refracted the town’s light back upon its streets. For the Underhive, no time seemed to have passed whatsoever. 

In this, the Overhang was an oddity, being a favourite of lower-hive mercenaries, and through its thin walls Amelia could hear the sounds of the tavern’s other patrons waking, while the smell of sizzling meats wafted up from the ground floor. The Overhang hosted a number of amenities that were rare in the undercity, such as double glazed windows that meant its more delicate customers could go without rebreathers, or the salvaged boilers that provided Amelia with the hot water in which she was gleefully washing away all the grime that she had gathered on her journey this far. It was largely a futile effort, she would inevitably have to put on the same dirty clothes as yesterday, but the psychological benefits were immeasurable.

As she washed her hair in the sink, having taken care to avoid getting any of the machinery of her psychic hood wet, she sensed the diminutive mind of Luka moving about on the other side of the door. When she emerged, she saw the girl staring with childlike wonder at the double headed eagle engraved onto Amelia’s breastplate. Luka turned at the sound of the door opening, only to have her eyes widen in horror at the nest of wires that emerged from the back of Amelia’s skull. There was something funny about this mutant, whose deformities would have horrified anyone on the surface, being so terrified at what was, by Imperial standards, rather tame modification and Amelia stifled a grin as she slipped on her shirt and trousers, before turning her best piercing stare on the small child.

‘Why didn’t you run?’ Amelia asked, curiosity keeping her from simply lifting the answers from the child’s head.

‘You’d find me, kill me.’ Her fear was so honest, so heartfelt, that Amelia saw herself for a brief moment as the ruthless leader of glowing eyed demons that had been Luka’s first impression of her.

‘Not if you killed me in my sleep, I know you have a knife.’ Luka’s hand moved automatically to the fold in her ragged clothing where she had secreted the small shiv and she fell silent, her eyes downcast.

‘I’ve nowhere else to go.’ The words came out in a near-silent whisper, as if it was a statement she was unwilling to confront.

‘You killed my clan; I can’t survive on my own. I’d be killed by demons or end up slave to a weaker master. I don’t know your clan,’ she gestured towards the double headed eagle on Amelia’s armour, ‘but you’re strong, and you haven’t killed me or sold me off.’

Amelia paused, and rested her hand on top of the Aquila. 

‘You’ve never seen this symbol before?’ She was incredulous, it was impossible for anyone to have never heard of the Imperium. Some of her shocked disbelief must have slipped into her tone, because Luka cringed back, her spines scraping across the floor.

‘I’m sorry!’ She shouted in desperation. ‘We lived in the Wall; we never saw the clans that lived on the other side! We’d never attack if we knew!’

‘You’ve never heard of the Imperium?’ 

As Luka frantically shook her head from side to side, Amelia came to a revelation. This far down, there was no Imperium. If these people knew of the Imperium in any way then it would be in the realm of myth and legends. Even in the lower hive allegiance to your local gang would be far more relevant to the population than the Imperium.

‘Who do you worship?’ 

There must be some element of the Imperium that existed even this far down. Luka shuffled backwards again and Amelia realised she had hit upon some secret. Still, she needed to be sure.  
‘If you don’t tell me, then I will take the information from your mind.’

‘God,’ came the sheepish whisper.

‘And who is God?’ Amelia’s words were laced with psychic energies to compel her to speak.

‘Grandma came down from the land above, where the Demons live. She told ma about God, and ma told me. God built the hive and everything in it, he sits at the top and rules over everyone. If you pray to God then he might give you wishes, ma said that God forgot about the Undercity, but that as long as I have my necklace God will listen to me.’

With trembling fingers, she drew a delicate chain from her collar, clutching the pendant in a closed fist as if she was drawing strength from it before reluctantly opening her hand and offering it to Amelia. An Iberian Crown rested in her hand, an imitation gold coin that would have been worth a month’s wages within the hive but was utterly worthless this far down. Worthless, except for the face of the Emperor rendered in profile on one side of the coin. Only psykers truly understand that faith has its own presence in the warp, and to Amelia’s eyes it seemed this simple coin held more of her attention than it should. It was not faith as she knew it, with grand temples and massed devotions, and it was twisted subtly by Luka’s mutations, but it was still there, an earnest and heartfelt belief.

‘The rest of the tribe laughed at us,’ Luka continued, ‘they said God didn’t care about us, that there were no gods, just steel and the strength of men’s arms.’

‘They’re right,’ Amelia interjected, ‘but not in the way you think. I know your God, and I serve him. He is the Emperor of all Mankind, and the ruler of this Hive, and countless others. Every human is counted amongst his subjects together in the Imperium,’ here she again rested her hand on the aquila, ‘larger and more powerful than any clan, than every clan.’ 

‘The Emperor didn’t abandon the people of the Undercity, they turned away from him. He believes that all humanity should be united to a common goal, but instead your people chose to reject his message and to seek their own power without caring for the damage they cause.’

Luka was watching Amelia like she was a tribal shaman imparting ancient wisdom, and Amelia decided that she should use this newfound awe.

‘That is why people down here become mutants, they’ve spent too long away from His light and have become corrupt because of it. The Emperor can’t take your mutation away, but if you serve him then you can work towards forgiveness for the crimes of your ancestors.’

There was some part of Amelia that hated toying with her emotions like this. She was no stranger to psychological guilt meant to instil loyalty and it felt somehow wrong to use the same tactics on someone else, especially a child. There was something incredibly tragic about the way Luka’s lips pursed together as her face took on a look of steely determination. Still, Amelia had to believe she had done the right thing. On a philosophical level, Luka would have spent her life lost in the underhive, never even having heard of the Imperium. Amelia was giving her hope in this hopeless place, and validating faith that was so rare amongst her kind. She would have also been hypocritical not to deny the practical benefits; this place was alien to Amelia, and to her retinue, and she needed a guide familiar with the local area who was bound to her by loyalty. She had positioned herself as an agent of Luka’s faith, and she could see with tragic certainty that the child’s mind was now wholeheartedly devoted to her.

As Amelia set about buckling on her breastplate, she was surprised to see Luka holding out her Stormcoat and the ragged cloak she had used as a disguise. Unnerved, she thanked the child and went quickly to the main hall of Overhang, where she breakfasted with Helena and Al’Said on some manner of fried meat that was almost, but not quite, recognisable. As they went out into the streets of Waterfall, Amelia turned to her Adjutant, ready to confront an issue that should have been resolved before they left the upper city. Helena’s thick robes were slowing them down, and the girl was becoming a source of embarrassment as she caught herself on every scrap of jagged metal.

She led the eighteen-year-old adjutant to a store that sold a variety of clothing, manufactured on site or bought from traders, placed a lasgun power pack in her hand and told her to go trade for something more practical. The proprietor was a mutant, a woman whose sleeveless vest exposed mineral growths on her arms, and Helena was unnerved by her childhood nightmare made manifest. Still, if there was one thing Amelia could depend on Helena for it was her healthy respect for orders.

After some time, and rather loud haggling, Helena emerged from the shop dressed in a bodyglove of brown leather. The tight-fitting garment, whilst not quite the skin-tight synthskin favoured by the Death Cults, was a far cry from her robe. Helena, who had been hidden beneath the folds of her robes for as long as Amelia had known her, seemed to glow with newfound confidence, and her golden hair hung loose behind her head. She took in a triumphal breath, only to bend over double as her lungs filled with toxic air. Soon her face was again hidden under her rebreather and those golden locks were buried under a hooded poncho, but for a moment Amelia had seen her adjutant as she would wish to be seen, rather than the false persona of the administratum adept that has been her identity for most of her life. Now equipped for their journey, Luka led the group out of the town.

They rendezvoused with the remaining stormtroopers in a hollow beneath a large section of flat metal. Past of Amelia suspected she should feel guilty about her hot shower and warm food, while these men had slept in their armour and eaten rations boiled over a block of burning hexamine. Still, she thought, the Stormtroopers would often boast in the mess of their ability to endure any hardship, so she supposed they were used to roughing it. Corporal Al’Said took them aside and briefed them on the journey ahead. They had come prepared for a long march, and each man had slung a haversack filled with rations and emergency equipment beneath the bulky power pack for their hellguns. With their hooded ponchos, their group might appear as a roving warband or group of traders, provided nobody looked close enough to see their fine leather boots or las weapons, which would be the envy of the underhive.

The miles fell behind them as they hiked away from waterfall. The paths here were as well travelled as the underhive gets, and they made a good pace along the smooth tracks of other travellers. This far from Waterfall the light began to dim, and it took some time for Amelia’s group to adjust to the near twilight. The lenses in their rebreathers would automatically compensate for the lower levels, but their disguise would be wasted if they all had glowing green eyes. On two separate occasions, their group was forced to seek shelter off the road so as to avoid meeting travellers heading the other direction. Traffic was infrequent but when people did travel along these roads, they did so in groups sometimes as much as two dozen strong. Once these caravans had passed out of sight, Amelia would bring her people back onto the road and they would continue on their journey.

In time, their route brought them away from the tracks and out into the main wastes. Here everything was a mire of twisted metal and strange organic growths. Small plants clung to whatever condensation could be drawn from the walls, little reddish weeds or pseudo-cacti bristling with spines. As the acolytes traversed the broken ground their footfalls would occasionally scatter small lizards into a dozen pockmarked burrows, they seemed to be Iberia’s answer to the common rat. Occasionally, they would spot the larger lizards that Amelia had seen in Waterfall’s flesh market, sunning themselves under the light of distant maintenance lamps, their long jaws open wide whilst small bats picked their teeth clean.

Their pace was far faster than the journey through the Wall. Though the terrain here was difficult, they had not yet met the added difficulty of verticality and their pace was much faster now that Helena no longer needed to unentangle herself from every scrap of metal. Indeed, Helena seemed to move across the ruins with a newfound grace that could not merely be explained by her change of attire, or the experience of crossing the Wall. It was as if she was finally starting to step into the light, and it warmed Amelia’s heart to see her come into her own. She still saw far too much of herself in her adjutant, and it seemed she was finally beginning to grow in confidence, just as Amelia had.

Much of the underhive is little more than mountains of rubble, but the Mechanicus had raised Hive castle about two hundred metres above the surface, and so there was a large series of open chambers in which the majority of the underhivers dwelt. Time and decay sometimes closed off chambers from each other, and hivequakes would occasionally send sections of the lower city crashing down, or erode the very ground beneath the underhivers feet. Beneath this shifting surface, Hive Castle was built atop the old city of Castle, which had grown naturally until its population became unsustainable, and the Governor petitioned the Mechanicus to sink in a hive city. Over time the skyscrapers and ha-blocks of the old city collapsed under their own weight, forming the shifting surface that now housed the underhive.

Donovan believed that the Ragged Duke had built his sanctuary in the deepest part of the Old City, where millenia of organic growth had created a geological strata that, were one to separate it from its surrounding, would show the history of Nova Iberia from its first colony to the present day, like rings on an ancient oak. To reach those crushing depths would not be easy: intact tunnels going that deep would be hard to find, and the few known entrances were fiercely guarded in the strongholds of the Undercity’s mightiest warlords. A passage to the Old City meant access to precious archeotech that could turn a clan boss into a king, or unleash ancient horrors that would destroy the clansman foolish enough to awaken them.

Over the course of his year in the Underhive, Donovan had managed to identify a small number of entrances that had been deliberately concealed, rather than fortified. He believed that the Ragged Duke used these tunnels as staging grounds for their war against the Death Cultists, which the underhivers knew only as invisible demons that descended from above to kill the strongest warriors. Since the arrival of the Inquisiton, mutant raids into the Hive had ceased entirely, likely as the Ragged Duke assessed the impact of this new player.

After a hard day’s hike through the undercity, Amelia finally reached the coordinates given to her by Donovan. The Stormtroopers spread out to secure the perimeter while Amelia reched out with her mind, searching for any consciousness that didn’t belong. She could see the eleven minds of the other Acolytes, as well as the subtly warped presence of the mutant Luka, and they stood alone for as far as her mind could reach. The entrance itself had been rendered deliberately inconspicuous beneath a metal sheet that seemed indistinguishable from the other ruins but which concealed a small tunnel made from sections of a wide pipeline with a metal ladder bolted to the wall. Past this pipe lay an arduous descent through the compressed mass of thousands of years of Imperial civilisation, at the end of which waited an army of mutants, with the Ragged Duke at their head.


	20. Descent

The descent was treacherous; it was one thing to cross broken terrain, and other to clamber through ruins, but to do both whilst descending a twisting maze of shafts that were at times near vertical was an incredibly arduous task. The acolytes moved steadily downwards, managing their descent with sharp picks driven into loose walls, or lines hung from jutting steel beams. Progress was slow, as the stormtroopers moved in shifts to ensure they were keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. The only exception was Luka, who clambered up and down with simian movements, waiting with poorly concealed frustration at the slow pace the Imperials were setting. To her, their expedition seemed to be a great adventure and she was eager, almost hyperactive, to see it continue.

Al’Said, at the top of their human ladder, used his pick to dislodge the highest rung on their rope. He sent the small metal spike down to the next man in line, who slid the rope through before removing the top spike and sending it to the bottom man. The rope would then rest on the next highest spike and the Acolytes would move down. Al’Said, now without a safety rope, manoeuvred himself down with picks and spiked boots, driving the picks deep into the wall of fragmented concrete and dirt before swinging his legs down and gripping on with his spiked soles. As he removed his pick it caught on a stone, and a cluster of walls perhaps a meter across simply slipped out and clattered past the acolytes. His shouted warning gave the men enough time to duck into the wall, but the boulder collided with one of their spikes and bent it completely out of shape. In this way, by fits and starts, they descended into the depths of the old city.

In time, the compacted earth and masonry began to more closely resemble collapsed buildings, as they passed through the layers of soil kicked up by the hive’s construction. The journey was still frightfully difficult, but now they navigated down the broken stories of great towers, and the tunnel began to spin and flatten as it followed the contours and floors of the buildings. They descended at a steadier pace, even if much of the terrain was flatter, and every now and then they could see the signs of ancient life peeking through the rubble. Certain walls were marked with identifying numbers that lay beneath only the faintest layer of dirt and, as their tunnel passed through the atrium of some ancient building, they passed a proud brass plaque that displayed the date 3 152.274.M32. It rested on a great stone archway that might have marked the entrance to some grand government building, or a colossal centre of infrastructure, Beyond this triumphal arch nothing more remained, save the remnants of a mosaic floor that had been consumed by a natural sinkhole and repurposed by the mutants into just another part of their tunnel system.

Amelia could feel the mutants, their tainted minds pulsing indistinctly in the darkness as they moved about in small groups. They were very few, and sometimes Amelia suspected she was misidentifying local wildlife. This far down, the animals themselves bore the same psychic taint as the mutants, and it took Amelia some time to parse through the mutations to find some recognisable element of the human soul. From what she had read of the Ragged Duke, he selected strong or promising mutants and had his followers drag them underground where they were never seen from again, with the exception of the occasional report of heavily armed mutant bands fighting Demons in the distance, or striking out into the surface. Clearly, the Duke had decided quality would serve him better than quantity. Amelia began to feel a presence in her mind, a swarm of bat like creatures were resting on the ceiling of the next cavern and the combined weight of their minds, subtly mutated by the underhive, was like a constant low static.

The static grew as Amelia’s group moved directly under the sleeping swarm. She could still see beyond them, and her fears of ambush seemed to be unfounded as the distant minds continued on their own way. She was utterly unaware as the first mutant dropped from amongst the swarm, a wicked blade of curved metal in his hand, and fell straight for Amelia. All she felt was the harsh impact of one of her Stormtroopers as he tackled her out of the way, in turn taking the blade in his neck. As the remaining mutants dropped, they were joined by the swarm of bats which, startled by the sudden movement, fled the cave in their thousands. Without waiting for clear targets, the Stormtroopers raised their weapons and, for the moments they had before the mutants landed, lit up the cave with beams of incandescent red. There was no way of telling which of the falling figures were corpses, attackers or simply swarms of bats and a fierce blind melee began. Amelia drew her sword with her right hand, all the while clutching onto her staff with the left. 

She desperately reached out with her mind to try and find someone, anyone. The Imperials were easy enough to find, their pure minds acting like beacons, but she was still unfamiliar with the intricacies of the mutant mind, and her foe blended into the swarming bats as if they were near invisible. Her sword had barely left her sheath when she registered a mind charging towards her. Her enemy was so close that she barely had time to turn and raise her sword before it met the rotating blade of a long chainsword in a wicked whirring of teeth, the mechanised blade skittering off her sword with a force that felt like the blade would be torn from her hand. Her opponent emerged, a mutant whose bulky musculature was hidden by what looked like flack armour but whose head was entirely exposed, showing unnaturally pointed teeth and a head shaven save for a mohawk of hair jutting up along its length. Leveraging his massive bulk, he drove in for another attack with a shout of ‘slice and dice!’ that bowled Amelia over until she lay flat on the ground before him, her sword chipped and her strength failing.

On the other side of the cavern Corporal Al’Said slammed the bulk of his rifle into the skull of a lithe mutant who had charged at him with two knives that curved back in on themselves. His blow shattered her nose, and his rifle continued its swing, bringing the muzzle up against her skull. With a single, full-power, shot he vaporised a hole in her temple as the bolt burned its way through, and out the other side. His helmet’s machine spirit was struggling to keep up with the sheer volume of moving objects amidst the swarm and the Corporal simply charged for the biggest shape he could see. As he closed with his target one shape became two and he saw the larger drive a blade into the other’s shoulder as they slumped to the ground. He charged forward with a scream of animal rage and, the moment the bare arms of his enemy were clear, he fired a burst of automatic bolts that spread up his target with seemingly no effect. 

After a moment, however, he saw the mutant drop to his knees as the heat from his shots boiled his internal organs and he rushed over to the indistinct female figure, now lying on the ground. Keeping his right hand on his rifle, Qaboos Al’Said placed a bloody gauntlet over the golden locks that covered Helena’s neck, and lifted her up towards him. Her breath, already distorted by the rebreather, had taken on a halting quality, proceeding in irregular fits and starters. She stared at him with a look of shock, through eyes that seemed too unfocused to be of any use. The blade had gone through her right shoulder, but had mercifully come out of her back rather than continuing downwards into vital organs. As Al’Said was joined by a second Stormtrooper who, understanding the situation, stood guard over the pair, he reached into his webbing and pulled out the emergency first aid pack.

The mutant stood over Amelia with a sadistic grin on his face. The fall had shocked her, and she couldn’t focus her mind enough to strike him. All she could do was watch helplessly as he reversed his chainsword and raised it over her chest. He raised his arms, thumbing the activation rune, and offered a triumphant cry of ‘slice and dice!’. To Amelia, it seemed as if time had stopped. She could make out each individual tooth on the chainsword and its high-pitched whirr became a deep and sonorous tone. Every part of her was engaged in gathering her psychic might for a last, desperate, struggle. The first flickers had only begun to form around her collar when a small shape darted across the corner of her eye. 

His mouth and eyes wide in triumphant extasy, the mutant was caught utterly unawares as a ragged figure leapt onto his shoulders, sending him staggering backwards, and drove a small knife first into one eye and then the other, before plunging the blade into every piece of exposed flesh. In desperation, the mutant moved his arms to swipe at his attacker with his great chainsword, but the frenzied attack continued as the whirring blade was simply ignored, passing less than an inch above its targets back. The mutant was resilient, and held for the first score of blows until his knees finally buckled and he collapsed. Amelia saw Luka continue to drive the blade in and out of the twitching corpse and, casting aside her now useless sword, she placed a comforting hand on Luka’s shoulder until the mutant girl stopped.

The swarm of bats cleared and Amelia found she was three men short, three of her stormtroopers having either died in the initial ambush or fallen in the melee. It was in this headcount that she spotted Corporal Al’Said cradling Helena’s head in his left hand and she rushed over to him. Their squad’s medic had survived the engagement, and the Stormtrooper knelt over Helena’s left shoulder which had been pierced by a nasty looking triangular bayonet. Bandages had been built up around the knife, but Helena’s army was twitching erratically and her golden locks lay in a slowly-expanding pool of blood.  
The medic stood on seeing Amelia approach, and walked over to her so they could talk away from the patient.

‘The wound is bad,’ he began ‘wounds from that sort of knife can’t be closed the normal way; it’s the wrong shape, and the blade went all the way through, so she’s lost some ligaments and several shards of bone.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Amelia worked hard to keep her distress from her voice, but she felt the medical man could see right through her.

‘There is, Ma’am.’ He said, as he pulled out what looked like a small aerosol can with a long tube on the nozzle. 

‘This is a chemical we use on battlefields to seal wounds that can’t be treated right now. If I fill the wound with it, then the bleeding will stop and the wound won’t become infected.’

‘Why haven’t you already?’ Amelia snapped at him.

‘The wound location means she would lose the use of her right arm; the chemicals don’t react well to nerves or muscle fibres, and I can’t cripple one of your assets without permission. Normally, this stuff is reserved for chest wounds that are immediately life threatening.’

Amelia’s eyes bulged, and she stared at the medic in shock, but his expressionless helmet was of no help.

‘And if we just stop the bleeding with bandages?’

He shook his head. ‘No, Ma’am, the wound wouldn’t clot right. We might be able to patch her up back on the surface, and she might regain the use of her arm after extensive physiotherapy and minor nerve-splicing, but it’s just as likely that the wound catches some mutated infection while we’re down here. There is a chance for her, but I can’t say it’s viable.’

Amelia’s eyes wandered from the medic’s faceless helmet, and over to her Adjutant’s twitching form. She stepped away and began the grim calculation, the horrific burden of leadership. If they did nothing, Helena was either dead, still crippled, or a fever-stricken burden on their group. On the other hand, she feared the loss of the easy confidence Helena had found and worried that by taking her writing hand she would do her a far greater injury, the kind that leads to a slow death at the bottom of a bottle, or on the end of a rope. For scribes, the loss of their dominant hand was a painful experience in more ways than one, and Amelia might be better off taking whatever measures necessary to preserve her Adjutant’s utility. In the end, her decision was motivated both by the unbearable state Helena was currently in, her mind rapidly descending into agony, and by the ruthless pragmatism that the Inquisitor would expect of her.

As the medic knelt over Helena for a second time, wiping down his canister with an alcohol wipe, Amelia reached out into Helena’s mind and stopped the flow of information from her right arm, temporarily paralysing it. She felt nothing as the medic pulled out the triangular bayonet, prompting the loss of vast quantities of blood, and roughly shoved the nozzle into its place. She felt nothing as the viscous blue chemicals burned their way into flesh and muscles and they sealed the wound. Only when the procedure was complete and Helena had been injected with another chemical cocktail designed to induce the growth of fresh blood cells did she release her grip, opening Helena’s mind to what was now little more than a dull, throbbing pain.

Beneath the glass lenses of her rebreather, Amelia saw Helena’s eyes come back into focus, and her breathing slowly returned to a steady rhythm. Amelia could feel her trying to clench the muscles in her right arm, and she stared at the limp limb in confusion as her exertion had no effect. Amelia saw her face shift from confusion, through grief and anger before settling on mute acceptance as the medic explained to her what he had done, and why he had done it. Amelia offered her own words of comfort, but this was an area she was utterly unfamiliar with, and her words seemed to have no effect. Perhaps Helena didn’t yet comprehend what she had lost, and her face became the picture of stoic determination as the now useless arm was bound to her chest.

One of her Stormtroopers called over to Amleia, and as she turned, she saw his armoured boot was firmly planted on the chest of a mutant, the four-eyed clansman writhing on the floor in agony. Amelia stormed over to him, seeing the scattered lasbolt wounds that covered his gut. He was alive, but his wound rendered him incoherent. Still, this was something Amelia could deal with, and she reached into his mind, severing his connection to everything below his spine, rendering him unable to feel the pain, and unable to move. He was young, perhaps in his late teens, and his face was contorted into a rictus of terror. Amelia loomed over him, and spoke in words laced with psychic suggestions.

‘Where is the Ragged Duke?’ Her voice was level, almost disinterested, but its psychic undercurrent compelled him to speak.

‘Demon!’ He shot back, ‘I don’t snitch!’

‘Demon?’ Amelia’s mouth curved back in a vicious grin. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Can’t fool me! Warriors from above! Led by women! These are the marks of the Demon.’

Amelia laughed out loud at the absurdity, and her captive cringed back in horror.

‘I should have expected this from primitives. In truth, I’d wager I’ve killed far more demons than you, boy.’ 

This time she went deeper into his mind, showing him images of herself killing the cultists attacking Magos Zeletrass. She briefly considered showing him the battle at the raptor’s nest but held back, for fear of the sight of the open sky traumatising the wretch. Her captive’s eyes lit up with the light of realisation. Amelia noticed with amusement that this seemed to only increase his terror.

‘Forgive!’ He cried, ‘We didn’t know! Please, spare my life and give me back my body, I will spread word of your approach so that all others know you are not to be harmed. My Lord is in the War Rooms, two miles from here and a few levels down! I can take you there, I know the way.’

‘And now,’ Amelia said as she lifted the information from his surface thoughts, ‘so do I. As for sending word of our advance, you are right. But there are plenty of mutants in this place who can carry my message.’

She turned to the Stormtrooper and gave an almost imperceptible nod. As she walked away, the mutant’s cries were cut short with a sharp crack and the smell of ozone.


	21. Revelation

True to her word, Amelia used her psychic senses to track down an isolated mutant who was brought down in an ambush. The terrified scavenger, one of the Ragged Duke’s men returning from a mission, first served the Inquisition by verifying the Duke’s location, and then by delivering a letter of introduction in the form of a vellum scroll, a small data slate containing Inquisitorial identification cyphers and a message burned directly into the mutant’s mind. The wretch took off at a sprint and Amelia sensed his disappearing form vanish from her range. Since then, they had been shadowed by discrete watchers. Mutants creeped up to their path in ones or twos, camouflaging themselves amongst the catacombs of twisted steel and soil. As they drew closer, their watchers became more obvious. At first, they saw a mutant with a tall spear leaning against the wall, putting on a disinterested air as he chewed some tobacco substitute. Soon, scattered pairs emerged from their hiding place to get a better view of the strangers from the surface.

It was clear to see that deliberate effort had gone into the creation of the paths upon which they now walked. The earth had been flattened and coated with plates of steel or salvaged flagstone, to create some semblance of a road, the roof of the cavern had been forced upwards by great salvaged girders and the buildings on either side had been excavated and reinforced to create some approximation of Imperial architecture. The improvised causeway ran alongside what was once the second floor of the buildings, and was lit in the glow of hundreds of dangling strings of lightbulbs, crisscrossing the ceiling like a starry sky. Indistinct figures crowded behind the windows, mutant parents holding their children up to get a better look at the new arrivals. Wherever circumstance or deliberate effort had created a commanding position there stood a mutant guard, equipped with flack armour and an autogun of a patter the acolytes were unfamiliar with.

The agents of the Inquisiton moved down this pale imitation of a triumphal causeway like the soldiers of a defeated nation, paraded before the masses in a triumph. Amelia stood at the head of their group, moving forward with determined strides that were marked by the clack of her staff as it struck the pavement. Helena and Luka walked a few paces behind her, while the Stormtroopers had formed two long lines on either side. Amelia could feel their eyes moving along the walls, trying in vain to keep track of so many potential enemies. Helena moved as if in a dream, and artificial state induced by painkillers and reinforced by her mind’s inability to comprehend her now useless arm, which was strapped to her chest. To Luka, this was the grandest place she had ever seen and her head darted around with childlike wonder at this faded example of Imperial glory. Amelia had withdrawn into the cold calculus of leadership. This was not the Duchy she had been expecting to find, and she found their surroundings distinctly unnerving.

After some distance, the causeway was split by a titanic statue. Once, it would have towered above the ancient denizens of this place atop an enormous plinth, but even with its feet buried in dirt it still towered over the acolytes. It depicted a man in dark grey power armour trimmed with gold. Though he was armed with a greatsword, it was held point down in his left arm, while his right held aloft a tome of folded plates of steel in which sat a brazier that may once have held a triumphant flame. His armour was decorated with representations of fire, and his right shoulder bore a flame burning within a book. His face, though devoid of hair, had a comforting, paternalistic, look and his head was turned towards the stars above. It was strange, Amelia thought, that in spite of every comforting feature, the statue unnerved Amelia on a deeply primal level. Nothing more remained to say who this nameless warrior had been, and Amelia had no intention of disgracing herself before the mutants by stopping to scrabble through the dirt for answers.

The cavern widened around the statue, perhaps the site of some ancient intersection, and the empty space was filled by two disorderly mobs of incredibly well armed mutants. They flanked the Acolytes on either side, and for all their apparent ill-discipline they were utterly silent as Amelia passed them by. Like the guards, they were dressed in khaki-coloured flack armour and armed with autoguns, though many also held the vicious blades and improvised weapons more commonly seen in the underhive. The Duke had been building an army.

The War Rooms apparently lay through the balcony of some ancient structure, and the balustrade had been knocked aside to create an easy entrance. Two mutants stood on either side of this door, sentries guarding the ruler of these lands, and they stepped aside to let Amelia pass. The building itself was unlike anything Amelia had seen. It had all the hallmarks of Imperial architecture, but the intricate gothic designs seemed wholly absent in favour of sweeping columns and long hallways of bright white stone. This was no dingy Imperial palace, but a bright and airy space meant to serve a wholly different sort of society. The entire building was well lit, it must have had its own power supply, and Amelia was stunned when the doors somehow sensed her advance and opened of their own accord. Wherever she was, it was old.

Her suspicions were confirmed as she entered a long gallery that took her breath away. One side contained a long row of windows that had long since lost their battle with geology, submerging half the floor under a layer of dirt, but the other wall held something truly majestic. The entire wall of the gallery, perhaps thirty metres long and ten metres high, was occupied by a colossal landscape painting. It depicted the meeting of two sides on a field of flowing wheat before a titanic mountain range. On one side stood what could only have been the ancient people of Nova Iberia; an eclectic collection of humans in tight-fitting clothing of bright colours that were lined with slashes that let flashes of coloured shirts show through. At their head stood a cluster of figures in archaic steel armour carrying halberds, swords and bolt-action rifles. Behind this delegation, and stretching off into the distance, the people of Nova Iberia looked on. Every face, lovingly rendered in intricate detail, seemed to convey a mixture of uncertainty and a profound sense of hope. 

Standing opposite, but not in opposition, to them were warriors in dark grey suits of what was unmistakably power armour. These Space Marines, who were tall but did not seem to loom, were intermingled with personnel from across the Imperium. Robed adepts of the Mechanicus had been discretely added into the background, as if the artist felt their deformities didn’t quite fit the theme, and soldiers in tall bearskin hats held their rifles in the air, with one carrying a banner upon which the Imperial Aquila was prominently displayed. There were figures in ornate brown robes, whose purpose Amelia could not fathom, and an eclectic collection of citizens from all walks of life, clutching paints, easels, books and any number of other strange items. Of the marines, only their leader was unhelmeted and he stood before the locals with one arm outstretched and the other holding an ornate tome, from which he seemed to be reading.

Beneath this image, set in the golden frame, was a small metal plate. ‘The Word is brought to Castile’ it proclaimed in High Gothic before listing the painter as one ‘Adrian Sameth, 467th Expeditionary Fleet.’ It did not take long for Amelia to piece together the connection. The Warrior Cults were older than even the Inquisitor had imagined, and the rot reached earlier than even their wildest fears. The question now was, how much can be saved?

Beyond the beautiful painting, Amelia was met by a guide. A mutant woman in an elegant dress of the type common amongst the servants of nobility who led her down a great staircase into the depths of the old municipal building. There was far less grandeur in the basement, indeed it seemed to have been built explicitly for war, but the bunker complex held wonders of its own. It seemed that these rooms had been forgotten by Iberia, and Amelia passed archeotech that would have been the envy of any tech priest. There were storerooms upon storerooms of flack armour and autoguns, most of which were now bare and enough billets to sleep an army. Beyond that, the War Rooms seemed to have been some ancient command and control centre, with great maps of the planet and its orbit sitting before tiered terminals like the stage of a theatre. Astoundingly, these machines were lit and displayed accurate information of the airspace and orbit. Amelia could see the Silent Observer in its perch above the spire, marked out with a simple red rune. 

The Ragged Duke met her in one of these control rooms, behind a large conference table that glowed with green light. He was surrounded by bodyguards, hulking mutants who each bore modern lasrifles or bulky shotguns. Before him, the table was laid with a spread of dishes that seemed to have been imported from the hive itself and mutant servants stood beside the table with their arms neatly folded in front of them. At the head of this parody of a nobleman’s dinner sat the Ragged Duke himself. He wore a rich green suit in a style popular with Imperial merchants, to which he had attached several plates of flack armour. His face was weathered with age, and his hair, which he had swept backwards, was entirely white. He looked at Amelia with piercing blue eyes which, though incomparable with the Inquisitor’s gaze, seemed to silently judge Amelia.

As she stepped forward, Amelia waved a hand towards her stormtroopers, signalling for them to stay back. She stepped up onto the raised dais that held the table, before offering her best curtsey to the seated figure. 

‘Mr Michelangelo Borgia, also known as the Ragged Duke, I am Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette of His Imperial Majesty’s most Holy Inquisition. I bring an offer from my Lord; Inquisitor Ishmael Heydrax of the Ordo Hereticus.’

‘Indeed,’ the Duke offered in response, his lip curling back in an amused smile, ‘but I never discuss business of an empty stomach. Please, sit. I assure you there is no need for your coat or respirator indoors; the air in the War Rooms is purified.’

Amelia put on a polite smile as she removed the respirator, though she was glad to be free of its restrictive grip. As she took off her coat, she became faced by the dilemma of what to do with her now full hands. Normally Helena would have sorted it, but she was still very out of sorts, and Amelia was surprised when, without a word or prompt, Luka came up and took the outdoor garments, thus saving Amelia from an early loss in the cutthroat game of high society.

Though she was silently grateful, she did not acknowledge Luka and instead sat in the only other chair, conveniently set opposite the Duke. The food, much to Amelia’s surprise and delight, was delicious, if a bit richer than she was accustomed too. No doubt a real noble would consider it poor fare, but both Amelia and the Duke were, after all, only playing at being nobility.

‘These ruins are beautiful,’ Amelia spoke with a slight emphasis on the word, ‘am I right in assuming they date back to the Great Crusade?’

‘They do indeed.’ If the duke had picked up on her subtle insult, then he made no indication. ‘The building above us, which now serves as my fortress, was once the seat of the provisional Government established after unification, back when this city was known as Castille. It is humbling to see accounts of life before the crusade. I find it helps place things in perspective. I take it you are not a native.’

Amelia widened her false smile at the small joke.

‘Indeed not, I was born in the Segmentum Ultima, the planet of Parravon in the Ghoul Stars to be specific.’

His eyes widened a fraction in entirely justified shock.

‘You are indeed a long way from home my dear. Do you think you will ever return?’

‘No.’ Amelia flatly denied, not wanting to spend long on such thoughts. ‘Unfortunately, my duties will keep me away for the rest of my life, still it’s nice to know that it’s still out there.’

Their dialogue, and the meal, continued for some time. It was a delicate dance bound by the strict rules of respectability. Each sought to unnerve the other so as to gain the advantage when the conversation turned to serious matters, but to resort to open insults would be to see their meeting descend into armed conflict. The Ragged Duke, for all his low birth, was far more experienced in these matters than Amelia, but her psychic gifts allowed her to read his surface emotions. Although Amelia couldn’t dig too deep, for fear of detection, she was able to level the playing field. 

The meal itself was fantastic, and the serving girls brought out rich steaks from the local wildlife, imported vegetables and some kind of risen pastry dish that held a rich gravy. Once this was gone, the servants cleared the table before bringing out the true prize, of which the Duke was unashamedly proud. A rich tiered cake was placed on the table, its component parts having been brought down from the upper city before being mixed and baked into a rich sponge cake with three layers of icing. Bloated with food, but immensely satisfied, Amelia and the Duke turned their attention to the matter at hand.  
‘I must admit, this is not what I expected from your organisation.’ The duke leant forward as he spoke, resting his left arm on the table and sending shadows across his lower face.

I had rather thought’ he continued ‘that, if the Inquisition would even bother coming my way once you were finished destroying the nobility, I would be faced by an army, instead of a particularly cunning redheaded girl.’

Another false smile at his dismissive comment, then Amelia continued.

‘As you are apparently aware,’ she looked around at the terminals and screens of the command centre, ‘the Governor was recently convicted of Heresy, aiding and abetting Heretics, Secession, and the attempted murder of Imperial agents. His death, coupled with our purge of the nobility, creates a power vacuum, and my Lord is determined to ensure that Nova Iberia doesn’t slip into horrific anarchy the moment we leave.’

‘How refreshingly forward thinking of him.’ The Duke interrupted.

‘Indeed.’ Amelia spoke, successfully hiding her irritation. ‘To that end, we are establishing a Provisional Government under a Committee of Planetary Unity, to be comprised of eighteen of this world’s most influential figures. You have been invited.’

The Ragged Duke laughed out loud, a seemingly genuine outburst.

‘I am a traitor, a criminal and the head of an army of rampaging mutants, and the Inquisition wants me to run the planet?’

Amelia had him on the wrong foot now, and she shifted her expression to one of neutral professionalism.

‘That’s right. You are a known critic of the old regime, and your unions have successfully influenced every factory in the hive. As for your mutants, you no longer need them. The Death Cults have been dismantled; their members executed as heretics.’

‘And why should I consider your offer? It is as you say, my enemies are dead and my control over the factories is unopposed.’

‘Except,’ this time it was Amelia’s turn to interrupt, ‘it really isn’t. Your cut of the union dues increases as you make the factories less efficient, but the administratum still needs its tithe. Press to hard, and you came close when you tried your takeover, and the supply chain gets interrupted. That brings down the Imperial Guard, and while your mutant army may be able to hold up to the PDF, it can’t stand against the might of the Imperial War machine.’

‘In addition, our recent… activities have left enormous gaps in the economy of this planet. Forty percent of Castille’s industry is now unowned, and will collapse within a month. My Lord has graciously decided to offer you these factories, as well as a sizable estate in the upper hive. Instead of leeching of the factories’ profits, you would have direct access.’

Amelia took satisfaction in watching the Duke’s eyes light up at the promise of wealth and, more importantly, a way to regain the high status he had so briefly enjoyed.

‘I am sure you have conditions,’ spoke his cynical side even as the rest of his mind dreamed of a palace in the sun.

‘An oath of loyalty is our primary concern, as well as allowing a Mechanicus delegation to dismantle the War Rooms. They’re just too valuable to leave in the hands of mutants.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘In return for that, and your guarantee that these mutants will stay where they belong, then we are preferred to offer you this gift as compensation.’

Amelia drew a small needle from her pocket. It contained an opaque white liquid and the Duke stared at it in confusion as she placed it on the table.

‘When we detained the Governor,’ Amelia spoke in answer to the unspoken question, ‘he was engaged in a medical treatment. This was no accident, you understand, but a deliberate effort to strike him while he was most vulnerable. As a result, we managed to seize a small amount of rejuvenat drugs. What you see is a second lifetime.’

No amount of social grace could hide the Duke’s blatant coveting of the small vial, and he practically snatched it up before holding the liquid up to the light. The Ragged Duke was old, his skin crossed by a myriad of wrinkles, and he must have felt like he would die in the undercity, far from the light of the beloved sun. For a while, the two sat in silence until the Duke, tearing his eyes away from the miracle elixir, spoke up.

‘I cannot in good conscience accept this gift. It is far to valuable for the concessions you have asked, and so I offer you something valuable in return. This centre was once the heart of Iberian planetary defence, and it is still connected to the communications grid in Castle station. It’s what gives my smugglers the inside information needed to beat customs and excise. Every message on a military frequency, Iberian or Imperial, is relayed through this site. I heard your attack on the Raptor’s Nest as it happened, but more importantly I caught this broadcast.’

With a wave of his hand, a terminal of holographic light rose from the table and the Duke began to hunt through a list of files before settling one that simply read ‘Outgoing communication between Raptor’s Nest and Site E-4.’

A single voice emerged, somehow sounding stronger than the average human, but inlaid with subtle undertones that created a deep sense of unease.

‘Sextus to Site E-4. The Raptor’s nest is under attack by the PDF. Sejanus is dead, and I suspect I will follow. Subject Maria Benevente was dispatched before the attack began and should be with you shortly, for all the good it will do you.’

There the voice was drowned out by the sound of an explosion, which crackled abruptly into static.

‘Site E-4?’ Amelia sat forward, looking at the Ragged Duke with rapt attention.

‘I don’t know what it is, but I do know where. You will find it in a mountain range some two hundred miles from the Raptor’s Nest.’

‘Thank you.’ Amelia exclaimed wholeheartedly. She had finally found the Master in the Mountains, and retribution would be swift.


	22. Pieces on the Board

The cleanroom was illuminated by harsh halogen lamps, its walls covered in white ceramic tiles and decorated with holy script. Soothing hymnals emanated from speakers built high into the walls, and a highly polished servo skull floated about, dispensing a misty spray of disinfecting incense. In the centre of the room a gurney had been raised off the ground, a functional thing of mare metal and wipe-clean material, and Adjutant Helena Brazier lay atop it, held down by tight leather straps. She was conscious, and her eyes darted around the room with some unease. A novice of the Orders Hospitallier stood by her side, a girl in her early teens wearing a plain white cassock, and comforted the wounded agent, bringing her down to some degree of calm. Behind them, a Sister of the same order was pouring over a tray laden with a selection of small needles. The woman wore close fitting carapace armour made to imitate the heavier power armour of the Orders Militant. The black robes of the order of the Bloody Rose, to which she was attached, hung from the joints of the pure white armour, and her face was hidden beneath a hooded wimple and a respirator.

One wall of the chamber was occupied by a large mirror that concealed a darkened observation room. Amelia stood behind this partition, watching the operation with concern. Another sister stood beside her, ostensibly an escort, but Amelia could feel the loathing emanating from her mind. Her face was the very example of bedside manner, but her mind ran wild with righteous wrath, directed at the ‘witch’ she had been ordered to escort. All the sisters felt this way, but Amelia no longer cared. She had her duty, in this case seeing to the safe recovery of her adjutant, and she wasn’t about to let anything get in her way.

The Hospitaller finally made her choice, selecting a long syringe filled with some opaque opiate. Helena winced as the needle went in, but the slight pain was soon replaced by a numbness that suppressed the few remaining nerves in her shoulder. A low whirr filled the room and Amelia caught sight of a small chain-blade, mounted to the sister’s gauntlet, as it was raised to the light. The saw was far more delicate than any combat model Amelia had seen, and it lacked the bulky housing of military-grade weaponry. The purpose of these modifications became clear as the blade was brought down on Helena’s shoulder. The blade must have been monomolecular on the bleeding edge, for Helena’s skin parted easily and soon the arm had been wholly separated from the shoulder.

Helena herself felt none of this, and the novice sister ensured she kept her face turned from the wound. Her shoulder began to bleed profusely as the Hospitaller began replacing damaged nerves with biomechanical replacements. To Amelia’s eyes, she looked like a watchmaker manipulating tiny cogs. Her hands moved with a speed and grace that seemed almost beyond human and soon the shoulder, complete with a new nervous system, was capped off with a steel plate upon which a mechanical arm would eventually be mounted.

To Amelia’s left, her escort coughed impatiently and she fixed the smaller woman with an intimidating gaze. Her own fears betrayed her, coupled with the slightest psychic manipulation, and the sister stepped backwards, her perfect masquerade temporarily broken, before collecting herself.

‘Agent Lafayette, the procedure is complete. The new nerves will take some time to heal, and it will be at least a month of physiotherapy until your servant adapts to a prosthetic.’

The words were meant to compel Amelia to leave, but she ignored them. She spent a silent minute looking through the false mirror as her adjutant’s shoulder was prodded with needles, to monitor the anaesthetic as it wore off. It was not long, however, before she turned to leave, satisfied that that there had been no complications. 

On a bench outside the Hospitaller’s chambers, and under the watchful eye of a particularly cantankerous looking sister, the mutant girl Luka waited. Amelia had made no conscious effort to bring the child with her, the girl had simply followed them to their waiting gunship, but nor did she regret her presence. In a way, Amelia owed her for saving her life in the ambush that had cost Helena her arm. Perhaps by refusing to abandon the child, she was subconsciously paying off her debt. Either way, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the girl would have to remain in Amelia’s quarters, for the only thing the junior acolytes feared more than Psykers was Mutants, apparently. In time, she may become a useful covert asset along the lines of Donovan Jeapes, but for now she held no official position, and acted as Amelia’s servant out of a sense of obligation.

One figure who had not been present when she arrived was the officer who saluted her as she approached, his uniform of a black dress jacket over dark red trousers demonstrating his service to the Inquisitor. Amelia returned the salute as best she could, still a long way from perfecting the intricacies of the gesture, and stepped over to speak to the man in private.

‘Ma’am, the Inquisitor ordered me to escort you to a briefing of senior command staff.’

This was far from unexpected, the information they had gained was far to valuable to be left to decay, and within an hour Amelia sat on the front row of an improvised command centre that had been hastily established inside the Imperial Court. The room held the familiar tiered seating that the Inquisitor seemed to prefer for his briefings, and a large holilithic terminal sat at the centre of the room. In her right hand she held a number of data stacks, while her left was clenched in nervousness.

The Inquisitor stood in the centre of the room, still in his ubiquitous power armour and still flanked by his crusaders, and his penitent witch. He took in the assembled acolytes and officers with a sweeping glance before beginning.

‘Servants of the Inquisition, our prey can hide no longer! We have found the warrens he calls home, and soon we shall descent upon them like Leman Russ himself! Their corruption ends today!’

There were no cheers, no jubilant shouts, but the assembled acolytes straightened up at his words, and Amelia could feel their eagerness. It felt like a predator, waiting to pounce. Se was caught up in the mood as well, at least until the Inquisitor fixed her with a piercing gaze.

‘Prime Agent Lafayette,’ he continued, ‘in her efforts to recruit Michelangelo Borgia to the ruling council, uncovered a transmission between the traitorous Space Marines. Agent Lafayette, if you would?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Amelia spoke without a moment’s hesitation, though she did spend a brief pause smoothing out the creases in her open-fronted stormcoat before stepping up to the hololithic terminal. Before her sat fifty experienced acolytes of the Inquisition, mercifully shrouded in darkness, and to her right stood Inquisitor Heydrax, his arm resting on the pommel of his sword.

‘The last communication to leave the Raptor’s Nest was an encrypted signal using secure channels first set up during unification. The relay centre for this covert network still survives in the underhive, where Mr Borgia had been using it to conduct a shadow war against the Death Cults. The transmission was between a sergeant of the Word Bearers legion, and an unknown individual in Site E-4.’

She drew a thin wire from the terminal, and connected it to a small data slate. The dim orange of the rooms few lanterns was overpowered by a rich green glow as a three-dimensional model of a mountain emanated from the projector.

‘According to the records,’ Amelia continued, ‘Site E-4 is part of Nova Iberia’s strategic promethium reserves, one of a network of seven underground stores of Promethium intended for use in war or in the event of a shortage. Pipelines travel from these storehouses to government installations: airfields, heavy industry or the hive cities.’

The mountain faded away, revealing a small cluster of green shapes representing tunnels and corridors. The base appeared to be built around a gargantuan central chamber five hundred metres deep and one hundred metres in diameter, the fuel tank itself, whilst eight wings stretched out from the base like the points of a star. One of these wings was connected to the surface by a long elevator, another two were given over to what looked like barrack blocks or warehouses, four were simply long corridors with large circular chambers along their length while the last housed an eclectic collection of rooms.

‘As you can see, the original structure has been highly modified. Four thousand years ago, the silo was transferred from the Iberian Department of Infrastructure to Special Forces Command, and they drained the tanks. They were very thorough in deleting every scrap of data relating to E-4, but they neglected the paper copy of the blueprint they filed for planning permission. What we also learned was that the trade in commandoes had been occurring for far longer, possibly since the Heresy. It seems that the archenemy’s leadership decided to expand the scope of the project.’

‘Thank you, Agent.’ The Inquisitor interrupted, and Amelia gave him a short bow before returning to her seat.

‘In our efforts to uncover one conspiracy, it seems we have stumbled upon another. I am sure I do not need to remind you that this site bears all the signs ritual use: the eight-pointed star, shipments of fine warriors and the site’s secrecy. More importantly, the presence of the Word Bearers. This scourge cannot be allowed to exist. I would wipe the site from orbit were it not buried so deep, but, alas, I fear that would have unintended consequences. This is fell magic, and we cannot risk anything that might release whatever tainted energies it contains.’

‘Therefore, we shall launch a subterranean assault. We shall leave nothing to chance. Every gun we have must be turned on that site. Fortunately, Marshall Taimur has uncovered a stock of eight Hellbore-class breaching drills. These drills will allow us to bypass the front entrance and strike with near total surprise. One drill shall be assigned to each point of the star and shall converge on the central chamber, which logic dictates would house the main ritual site. Each drill shall contain a Mission of the Adepta Sororitas, and two companies of Stormtroopers, as well as select acolytes.’

‘Make no mistake, the enemy will not go quietly. The forces of Chaos will test your resolve, and the traitorous Space Marines remain as lethal as their loyalist counterparts. But we are the Inquisition! We are Malcador the Hero’s finest creation, men and women chosen because we alone have the strength to stand against the darkness and emerge pure! The Emperor protects! And I promise you, no matter how foul, darkness wilts in his Holy Light.’

Amelia could not tell who shouted first, it may well have been her, but the small chamber suddenly echoed with the combined strength of fifty voices speaking in unison.

‘The Emperor protects!’

Pretal Hadar watched from on high as subject three-nine-four-seven carved a bloody path through her foes. She fought in the centre of a great ritual circle, painted millennia ago and continually refreshed by chalk mixed with spilled blood. Her fighting, and the flailing corpses of her foes, scattered the dark-brown ritual circle with no regard for the effort that had gone into its construction. But that was to be expected, for no warrior should ever confine themselves over a stretch of chalk and a battlefield would likely never notice it. Three-nine-four-seven had already slain sixty of her eighty-eight attackers, and the remaining few were circling warily around her, wielding wicked axes. This batch of slaves had been acquired on a feudal world, and they were still swaddled in furs and tribal fetishes. Psycho-indoctrination had raised them above the common coward, and ensured that they would fight to the last rather than potentially polluting the purity of the site by fleeing a battle. When the last of them died, and the last drop of their blood had been squeezed onto the floor, then he would descend and begin the painstaking process of laying out the new circle which would soak in the blood and absorb the essence of the slain warriors.

His ancient mind turned itself back to three-nine-four-seven. She had a name, Benevente if he recalled correctly, but there had been so many names, and a sequential number was far easier to reference and remember. Still, three-nine-four-seven was somewhat of a rarity; comparatively few of her thousands of predecessors had been female, and to overcome professional soldiers was worthy of some degree of recognition. She moved with a lithe grace as she carved her way through her attackers, disembowelling them with swift strokes. A lesser man might have found the display erogenous, but Hadar was entirely sexless. If there was anything he appreciated about her movements, it was the obvious devotion. Many subjects never truly understood what it meant to devote your life in service to the gods, and affected the purity of the ritual through the corrupting influence of cowardice. Three-nine-four-seven was a true devotee to the Blood God, and saw herself as merely an expendable tool of His will. Or, Hadar reflected with something approaching mirth, the Will of her masters in the Word Bearers.

The end was near, now only six remained, and Hadar shifted his massive bulk for the first time in fifty-five minutes. The joints of his armour creaked in silent protest; his chestpiece, the colour of decaying bones, scraped against his blood red pauldron which displayed the symbol of his legion. In truth, he was loyal to the Consortium first and foremost, but he would gladly serve if it meant he could conduct his research. Four thousand years ago a pact had been agreed between the Consortium of Fabius Bile and the Word Bearers, offering to train Apothecaries in exchange for personnel to support the Consortium’s continued experiments. Hadar cared little about any of this. As far as he was concerned the universe ended at the entrance to his underground laboratory. At the base of the steps he was met by another marine. A corporal whose existence was as irrelevant as his identity.

‘Apothecary Hadar, we have been unable to contact anyone on the secure channels for quite some time now. I suspect the Inquisition may have found us.’

‘Soldier, do not bother me with trivialities at this crucial stage. The experiment will continue, no matter what petty changes happen above our heads.’

‘To the Warp with your experiments,’ the marine spat back, venom in his words, ‘how many more pointless years will you waste here until you finally realise your chasing the impossible!’

‘Soldier,’ Hadar spat back at the impudent whelp, ‘need I remind you that your masters gave you to me. To assist in my experiments. You do not need to understand their purpose, and I doubt you even can. If the lapdogs of Malcador the Weak do come here, then you will keep them away until I am done. For as many years as it takes.’

The marine fell silent, or perhaps he was simply taken aback. It mattered little, and Hadarr simply brushed past him. He had missed the killing blow through that pointless dialogue, and instead of the end to a glorious melee he was greeted by the sight of three-nine-four-seven kneeling prostrate in the centre of the chamber, whilst his staff cleared the room of corpses. The subject did not move as he approached, nor did she seem to mind that her forehead was pressed into half an inch of blood. She bore only light wounds, but even so some of her own blood was being added to the floor. When he stood before her, he paused for a moment as he tried to dredge up her name. He had long ago theorised there was a psychological component, and he always tried to address his subjects by their chosen designation, at least once.

‘Maria.’

Subject three-nine-four-seven displayed the same reaction as all her predecessors, save one anomaly who had gone deaf in the melee, and cringed back, trying to lower herself even further into the ground. Hadar’s voice, crafted to his own exacting specifications, tended to instil a sort of primal fear in normal humans, and he took some small pleasure in watching them squirm. The subject had not replied, though that was hardly abnormal.

‘You fought your way through the Warrior’s Trail, to prove your strength.’ Her joints stiffened, perhaps in pride?

‘You have slain your sisters-in-arms, to prove your devotion.’ Not the slightest hint of sadness, perhaps even a degree of sadistic satisfaction?

‘Now you have bathed in the blood of a hundred foes. The Blood God looks favourably upon you.’ In spite of the obvious pain his voice caused her, Hadar saw the muscles of her cheek tighten. She was smiling. Good.

‘Now, you will be judged once more. I offer you the chance to ascend, to become something more than you are and take your place at His side. Do you offer your life for this cause?’

She shuddered, her right eye began to twitch, her back arched and Hadar could see a fresh stream of blood coming from her nose but still she spoke.

‘Yes, master. My life is yours.’

‘Then return to your cell. You will be summoned when we are ready to begin.’

She rose in fits and starts, her legs trembling too much to gain a steady footing. She left the chamber bent over and with her arms folded in against her chest, her head kept averted away from Hadar. With the subject’s departure, Hadar took a bag of chalk dust from a waiting slave and began the painstaking process of marking out the ritual circle. The slaves fled the chamber, ascending to the walkway that ringed the pit before disappearing into their quarters. Over four painstaking hours, Hadar marked out a ritual circle of an intricate, and mathematically precise, design. He worked from memory, having done the same procedure thousands of times. 

Once he was done, subject three-nine-four-seven was brought back to the chamber by a slave. She was naked, to remove foreign impurities, but she had not washed and much of her skin was coated by a thin crust of dried blood. She stepped before the Apothecary, her head bowed, and was directed to lie on her back in the centre of the circle, her arms and legs outstretched. Without so much as a word of warning, Hadar took up an iron spike and, using his armoured fist, drove the length of metal through the palm of her hand. The subject screamed, and her unbound limbs flailed, but her resolve was strong and she moved her other hand back to its original position. She did the same for her two feet, and soon the subject was affixed to the concrete base of the ritual chamber.  
The Apothecary took up his own place outside the ritual circle and began the lengthy chant that would break down the barriers of reality itself.


	23. In the Hall of the Mountain King

The Imperium of mankind spans the galaxy from end to end. It is an empire of a million worlds, each one its own unique biosphere with its own flora and fauna. On most planets, the environment is somewhat similar to Old Earth, with the subjects of the Imperium dwelling in sprawling cities set amidst rolling green hills, broad alpine vistas and great deserts, perhaps the result of some ancient terraforming project. But on some worlds, life exists in a way that would be unrecognisable to the denizens of old earth. In many systems, humans exist in great stations suspended in the airless void, thriving on resources taken from dense asteroid belts, or the shattered remains of dead planets. Some worlds are entirely oceanic, and contain endless vertical stacks of underwater farms, tended to by a race of abhumans watched over by a planetary governor on an orbiting platform. Some, like Tallarn or Valhalla, have surfaces that are uninhabitable by human life, and so they dwell in vast underground arcologies.

The mighty war machine of the Imperium cannot be limited by any environment, and it was for these latter worlds that the Hellbore was created. It resembled an enormous bullet, tipped by a whirring drill, and it contained enough space to comfortably seat a company of soldiers, or a squadron of tanks. The passengers are loaded above ground, while the drill rests on its flatbed transport. That transport then raises its rear end, and sends the drill into the ground under its own gravity. Once it hits the ground, the drill begins burning through the earth and rock with an array of plasma cutters, whilst grinding metal blades shift the molten earth aside. On the side of the drill, great toothed tracks pull the machine along the channel of rock, forcing the drill ever onwards. At the end of its journey, which could begin dozens of miles from its origin point, the plasma-drill burns through the walls of the enemy arcology, incinerating anyone unfortunate enough to be close to its exit point in clouds of superheated steam. The drill continues for a few yards on its own power before shutting down, and disgorging its passengers.

These passengers sit in long rows of seats that rotates with the drill, so that they are always kept pointing vaguely downwards. This system was far from flawless, but it did negate the risk of nausea. Still, Amelia felt distinctly unwell as her seat rocked gently from side to side. It would perhaps be unwise, she remarked to herself, to blame her uneasiness solely on the slight rocking; Amelia was scared, more scared than she had been since she had knelt before the Inquisitor in the Courts of Justice. It was fear of the unknown, that primal fear that has been with humanity since the first man looked up at the stars and wondered what lay beyond his cave. Humanity has tamed the stars, and now looks into the warp with fear, wondering what they might become. As a Psyker, Amelia had always skirted the line between the warp and the material realm, and this connection meant she could feel, even perhaps see, the twisting sense of wrongness that lay ahead of them.

If she turned her head and looked beyond the rows of seated stormtroopers and sisters, past the Inquisitor and his retinue, past the twitching form of the penitent witch, driven into convulsions by the tainted air, then she could see, even through the drill and the miles of earth, a faint crack in the air, and a faint light spilling out into the world. It was a small thing, but it seemed to dominate her attentions. As they drew closer, the tear did not increase in size but stayed the same small speck, as if it was right in front of her and only appeared distant. The only thing that changed as they closed in was that it became more sharply defined, going from a wave of light to collections of wire-thin tendrils, each clearer than even her own surroundings. None of the others seemed to notice, except for the wretched penitent whose face was marred by a steady stream of clear tears.

The cabin lighting turned red, and the troopers set about their final checks. At the front of the transport, the red-armoured sisters raised their voices in a hymn to the emperor, a sweet sibilant sound that spread to fill the whole space. Their leader, a sister superior, moved down the transport, blessing the stormtroopers by placing her armoured palm on their bare forehead. The stormtroopers offered short catechisms as she passed, but there was no unity here as each man spoke the words that held the most meaning to him. When the Sister Superior reached Amelia’s group, Corporal Al’Said removed his helmet so that he might be blessed. Amelia had never seen his face before, and she watched his dark-skinned features, with its short-trimmed hair and beard, shift into a grim look of determination as he accepted the blessing. The Sister did not bless Amelia, instead refusing to even acknowledge her presence, but that was to be expected. Amelia’s faith had become a private thing, a reserve she could fall back on, and she had long since accepted that she would never be fully welcomed back into an Imperial congregation.

The Hellbore’s vox-system shuddered into life and the voice of the tech-adept controlling the gargantuan machine began to count down from thirty. When he hit one, the entire drill shuddered as it broke through into open space, and the steady grinding of rock was replaced by the shrill shriek of scraping metal. As the drill slowed, it ponderously rotated itself so that one of the long exit hatches was level with the seating. Outside, Amelia could hear the dull thud of bolt rounds, as turrets emerged from the Hellbore’s flanks and began firing into an unseen enemy. As one, the passengers stood, grabbing onto handles hung just above their heads, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice. Behind her, Amelia could hear the long doorway slide open as soldiers leapt out into the unknown. Before her, the hatch, jammed by some unknown obstruction, burst from its housing as emergency explosive bolts were detonated, sending the door careening to the floor.

The stormtroopers leapt out with a wordless cry of rage, joined by the Sisters of Battle’s banshee shrieks and the utter silence of the Inquisitor’s crusaders. Amelis followed, dropping the six feet between the hatch and the ground before landing unsteadily on her feet. What she saw, was pandemonium. Their transport had been aimed at one of the corridors filled with circular chambers, which they had estimated were storehouses of some kind. The rill had burst straight through one of these chambers before settling at an oblique angle in the corridor. The walls of this chamber, and much of the Hellbore’s flank, were covered in a thin layer of gore, and it became clear that something alive had been kept here. The cell’s doorway, what little of it still remained, sparked and sputtered with the unmistakable ozone-smell of void shielding. Her musings, which were the effort of a moment, were interrupted by a cacophony of animalistic howls and shrieks, and the echoing sounds of gunfire.

A thin line of stormtroopers were hunkering down behind scraps of fallen masonry, firing into a massive melee. Their advance had been checked by a force of cultists in latex medical gowns, topped by red flak armour, who fired down the open expanse of the corridor with autoguns. In and amongst the ranks of both the cultists and the Inquisition, horrific monstrosities lunged indiscriminately. No two were unique, though the majority stood twice as tall as a man, and each was a horrific amalgam of tentacles, fur and scales with enough pink flesh left to identify them as having once been human. These Chaos Spawn lurched on misshapen legs through the ranks of both forces, striking indiscriminately into the crowds. Both gun lines dissolved into this general melee, and soon everyone was engaged in a desperate struggle against this third adversary. 

Amelia ran into the crowds, forced in part by the mass of soldiers that surrounded her, and soon found herself surrounded on all sides by opponents. She drew her sword while simultaneously readying her real weapon, an aura of psychic energy that would bolster the Imperials resolve. The results were imperceptible, a man fighting for his life looks much the same when his resolve is bolstered, but the effect gradually gave the Imperials the upper hand. Her influence went some way to suppress the primal fear of these men, and they fought without flinching, and without becoming the victim of their fears. Still, the melee was fierce and brutal. The Inquisitor’s forces, weather the stormtroopers’ hellguns or the Sister’s bolters, were geared towards fighting at range, and only the Inquisitor, his retinue and some select acolytes were equipped to fight in melee. To Amelia’s surprise, she saw Interrogator Filburn, still in his ostentatious garb, ducking and weaving at the very front. He moved with a fencer’s grace, almost running rings around the misshapen goat-creature that towered over him.

Amelia preferred to duck and weave through the fighters, getting in opportunistic cuts when enemies turned their backs, or selectively paralysing enemies with psychic energies. The strange tear in reality was still present, and its foul energies had Amelia reluctant to employ any of her more powerful abilities. Instead she fought with the infantry, using the small amount of musculature she had developed while on planet to carve a path through, holding back the enemy from a small group of stormtroopers as they fired over her head. One cultist, wielding a bloody butcher’s knife, caught her on the side with the back of his blade, sending her reeling. The wretch’s head was shaved, but his skin was crisscrossed by misshapen scar tissue, and his jaw appeared to be hanging on by a thread. His attack had not been deliberate, but rather the result of the confined battlefield, and while he was confused Amelia quickly drew her blade up, carving a bloody red line along his pristine white apron.

The stormtroopers moved up beside her, pouring automatic fire into the crowds before bludgeoning enemies to death with their rifles when the enemy got too close. An officer, a whirring chainsword held in his hand, moved up besides Amelia as a horrific abomination forced its way through the mass of humanity. The beast had the broad features of humanity; a human torso and a vaguely human left arm, both oversized to the point of absurdity, but it staggered towards them on two different legs, one of which had two knees while the other was bent backwards. It had no right arm, just a trio of barbed tentacles that stretched out twelve feet, a whirling dervish of blades that carved its way through the troopers. Its head was split down the middle, revealing a gaping maw and it leered at them through an eye set between its pectoral muscles. Its left side was torn by bolter fire, but it seemed not to notice the long intestinal tube that was dragged behind it.

The officer rushed forward, raising his chainsword in a grim gesture of defiance, as he prepared to defend the senior Acolyte from this monstrosity. His knees bucked as the beast brought its arm down, but he did not break and the two stood there for a moment as the whirring blade skimmed ineffectually of the beast’s thick hide. His arms failed, and the beast drove a colossal blow downwards that crushed through the Stormtrooper’s helmet, before shttering the skull beneath. The headless body sank to its knees before gravity brought it down. The beast stepped over and through the armoured chestplate as it rounded on Amelia, bringing its arm up for another titanic strike. 

The blow fell with the force of a meteor before stopping mere inches from the Psyker’s face. Amelia’s eyes glowed the unnatural violet of the Warp as she tried desperately to reign in the animalistic mind of her opponent. The Spawn’s head was a twisted place, like an amalgamation of different souls stitched together, and at its heart was something unrecognisably, and horribly, human. She caught flashes of corrupted memory. The warmth of a mother’s embrace, the pride of a military parade, the passionate flesh of a girl seized from her dance in the Raptor’s Nest, the thrill of victory, the grief over slaughtered brethren and finally the sense of betrayal as an armoured god drove spikes of iron through his hands. The memories were corrupted and disjointed, but their humanity was undeniable.

All this occurred within a moment, two warp-touched beings facing off against each other, before a fire team of armoured stormtroopers fired on the beast. Their lasbolts were absorbed by its unnaturally tough hide and one of the troopers ran up to the side of the beast, driving the barrel of his rifle through its wounded flank. The Chaos Spawn glowed from within as the incandescent bolts tore through its flesh. Gradually, Amelia felt its raging mind calm and withdraw, as its grey mater was torn to shreds. The creature seemed strangely relaxed in the face of its death, as if the tortured mind lacked the most basic will to live.

There was no respite after it fell, only the next in a massive menagerie of deformed cultists or horrifying Chaos Spawn. Their entry had severed the power to most of the cells, but it seemed some unseen hand had released the remaining monstrosities, not caring if his own cultists were caught in the warpath. It was a war of attrition, a brutal melee with no defined sides or frontlines. There were enemies all around, but allies too, and the Chaos Spawn wandered like elephants, attacking both sides indiscriminately or simply wandering in dazed confusion. He Inquisitor and his retinue carved through this melee with cold fury. His power-armoured figure drew attacks like moths to a flame, but his heavy plates shrugged off mutated arms whilst his head lit up in coronas of golden light as enemy fire hit his Iron Halo. Gradually, that small nexus of organised resistance grew into an impenetrable ring as more and more Acolytes filtered in. Now the stormtroopers had room to manoeuvre and the room lit up in a kaleidoscope of red beams, cultists dying in droves whilst Chaos Spawn fell beneath massed volleys of Bolters. 

The stormtroopers were left to secure the remaining cells while the Inquisitor, his acolytes and the Sisters of Battle ran down the remaining length of the now cleared corridor. The forced their way through a wide steel bulkhead, the Inquisitor’s power-sword carving off the hinges, and emerged into what had once been the fuel silo. Above their heads, the towering heights of the tank disappeared into inky blackness, while the only light came from a solitary floodlight suspended two hundred metres above the ground. They were on a gantry raised five metres off the floor, which ringed the broad expanse of the chamber along which seven other entrances led to the rest of the complex.

What drew Amelia’s eye was the same anomaly she had seen before, now rendered crystal clear. The tear hung in the air fifty metres off the ground, directly over the centre of the chamber. Now that Amelia was underneath it, she could see that it was more of an opening then a tear and, though she couldn’t see what was o the other side, she could smell acrid smoke, and she heard what sounded like the distant noise of battle. This oculus looked down on the floor of the chamber, and Amelia followed its gaze. The floor was entirely red, the colour of fresh blood, and there was a concentric series of runes ringing the centre that burned with an unnaturally red flame. At the centre of this edifice was the prone form of a nude woman, secured to the floor of the chamber with massive iron spikes.

Amelia recognised the girl as Maria Benevente, who she had seen through her father’s eyes. Her back was unnaturally arched, as if the oculus was drawing her closer, and Amelia could see the tendons in her arm and legs tearing against the pressure of the spikes. Her mouth was wide in a wordless scream and her eyes had rolled back into her head, leaving only white orbs in their place. The entire circle was ringed by a hundred skulls, their eyes glowing red, that faced the naked girl like some horrific audience. On the opposite side of the chamber stood a titanic figure, a space marine, dressed in off-white power armour covered in shards of bone. His face was concealed beneath a horned helmet, and his arms were raised in supplication while he continued a long, droning, chant.

The oculus flared, pulsing and growing, as white tendrils expanded. Amelia was struck by the presence of something else in the chamber. Something immense and ageless was watching them, or, more specifically, watching Maria. Her wordless scream ended, she sank back to earth, and seemed to regain some control of her senses. Her eyes rolled back into her head and fixed on the oculus. For a horrific moment, Amelia caught something unnatural in the girl’s pupils, even from this distance. This shrouded figure paused as it weighed up the crucified girl before the oculus began to retreat in on itself and Maria Benevente began to convulse unnaturally. The figure had been unknowable, but Amelia had managed to glean a single hint of understanding, as if its mood was strong enough to be reflected into others.

It was disappointed.


	24. Mind over Matter

The cavernous chamber echoes with a wordless cry of rage. This bestial, animalistic, shout spread throughout the cylindrical tower until it seemed there were thousands of voices magnified in their rage. Across from the Inquisitor’s party, the traitorous apothecary had his head turned to the sky, his eyes and mouth bulging open as he shouted in wordless defiance. The crack began to fade and disappear, until the traitor lowered his right hand as if to seize it. As he did, he drew a strange grenade with his left hand, a globe of green vapours contained within metal bindings that resembled a human skull. The inquisitor let loose a hail of shells from a wrist-mounted storm bolter, joined by the sisters and stormtroopers a mere moment later. Their volleys did not fly true, but were curved and distorted by the rift until they exploded harmlessly against the ceiling or wall. The lasbolts were split as if travelling through a prism, and kaleidoscopic patterns of colours played against the opposite wall without any noticeable effect.

The marine gave the grenade an almost half-hearted throw, letting the rift catch it and draw it closer in. When it detonated, it did so with a swirling vortex of unnatural shapes and colours, that Amelia saw through her soul rather than her eyes. The Inquisitor’s penitent screamed as the chamber was bathed in baleful warp radiation that poured into the poor woman’s addled mind. Her eyes burst, leaving only glowing holes and she sunk to her knees as her body seemed to burn up from within, leaving a hollow shell of blackened flesh that leaked a fine grey dust. 

Where the rift had been, there was now little more than empty space, but the flames surrounding Maria Benevente rose higher and higher, and her skin began to bulge and expand. When the Inquisitor let fly another volley of shots off at the apothecary, they began to spin around the ritual circle before detonating in and around the helpless sacrifice. Her skin was rent asunder by innumerable bolt shells as prismatic lasbolts superheated blood and bone marrow. The poor girl collapsed under the pressure until she resembled little more than a pile of viscera. The apothecary was long gone, having fled into another passage.

Suddenly, the pile of blood and bones that had once been the finest daughter of Nova Iberia began to split and bubble, as if it was under a great heat. This mass of flesh expanded rapidly, building up mismatched bones, muscles and skin seemingly at random. The assembled acolytes, gradually joined by others from the other entry teams, poured fire into this monstrosity, which seemed to only serve to spread it further. Primitive limbs began to form, great arms with innumerable elbows, covered with fingers like any other beast would have fur. These arms swing outwards, catching a trio of stormtroopers as they poured fire in, sweeping along the top of the railings as if it were blind. 

Innumerable eyes began to grow on the centre of this mass, each unmistakably human no matter how mutated they may be. These eyes were immediately targeted by a withering hail of fire, and many burst as soon as they were formed, but the monstrosity was constantly creating more as the flames around it rose higher and higher. Amelia, unsteady on her feet, offered her own meagre fire from her laspistol, firing on an empty magazine before she thought to reload. The monster was more accurate now, and its arms shot unerringly towards the Inquisitor’s retinue. One bulky tendril even went after the Inquisitor, before it was bisected by his power sword. 

As this bulky arm, still writhing even without being connected to its host, shot past Amelia, she woke from whatever terrified trance her fear had brought her to. She saw the creature, surrounded by the still-burning ritual circle. The flames were merely the most obvious component, she could see a steady flow of energy ravelling into the monstrosity, doubtless the source of its unnatural regeneration.  
‘We have to destroy the circle!’ she cried in a hoarse voice.

It was enough, however, and the Inquisitor looked to her with a bemused expression before turning back.

‘Focus fire on the ritual circle! He cried, ‘Cut out the very ground from under it!’

His followers obeyed without question, turning their guns away from the monstrosity with no regard for their own lives. Whatever fell power the circle contained still drew their munitions into the centre, into Maria, so they angled their weapons almost entirely downwards, carving deep furrows into the surface as their shells were caught in the pull. The incandescent flames began to scatter as the burning chalk disintegrated under explosive force, and the monstrosity began to shudder uncontrollably, sending out horrifying psychic screams that had Amelia bent double. Soon this ethereal sound was matched by reality as a thousand tears formed across the beast, creating screaming maws filled with rows of irregular teeth.

Metlas and plasma weapons were turned on the floor, and soon great plumes of natural red flames danced amongst the incandescent violet of the warp-touched chalk. The great beast screamed and screamed as it lashed out at its tormentors. Its regeneration had slowed, and it wounds no longer grew into new mutations, but instead repaired themselves as the beast maintained its current size. Every explosive weapon the acolytes had was thrown into the pit, until the floor resembled little more than an ashen grey ruin, interspersed with pools of superheated stone. 

The Inquisitor took his boot to the iron railing, following its descent until he landed in the base of the pit. His crusaders followed thereafter, until thirteen blades stood in opposition to the monstrosity. They charged forwards like ancient knights, ducking and weaving amongst the creature’s immense arms, or simply carving through them. One knight tried to parry a blow with his immense shield, but the arm simply knocked him against the wall, where Amelia felt his soul withdraw as the nerves in his spine were shattered. Their heroic effort was joined by a titanic volley of fire from above, slowly but surely reducing the mass of the great beast.

‘Filburn!’ the Inquisitor’s voice carried beyond the retort of massed bolter fire, or the agonising screams of the mutated beast, ‘Kill the traitor marine! Bring me his head!’

Interrogator Filburn, whose ostentatious attire clashed incongruously with his utterly serious demeanour, shouted his assent before sprinting off, followed by ten sisters and a platoon of stormtroopers. Amelia joined them, her psychic powers about as useful against Maria Benevente as her laspistol, shadowed by Corporal Al’Said, who had not left her side since the chaos of the initial breach. As she closed with the Interrogator, Amelia flung herself to the ground to avoid a stray arm that slammed a sister against the wall, crushing her power armour in a shower of sparks that left the body twitching, embedded a full foot into the steel wall of the chamber. Amelia pressed on, banishing the sister’s agony from her mind, and joined the Interrogator just as he entered the corridor the traitor had fled through. 

Filburn headed up a large group of Sisters, his long red coat flowing behind him as he strode onwards. He turned back for a moment, taking in the monstrosity behind him and flashing Amelia a wolfish grin of pure white teeth framed by his dark skin. His right hand held his narrow power sword down by his side, some impurity within the ancient mechanism sending cascading lines of electricity along its length, while his left supported a long inferno pistol, its burning barrel raised up to the ceiling. This spoke of the bunker’s ‘wheel’ seemed to have been occupied by offices and barrack blocks, and consequently was a network of featureless grey corridors, unlike the vast expanse of containment cells that dominated the rest of the facility. Filburn moved through these tunnels with an easy confidence, while the sisters would occasionally dash ahead to clear corridors ahead of their advance. In this way, they slowly ate up the distance between the hunters and their prey.

Suddenly and without warning, one of the sisters was stuck by a hail of stub-rounds as she rounded the corner. The lead slugs did little more than spark across her armoured features, and she immediately responded with a volley of bolt-shells that echoed throughout the halls. Two of her sisters sprinted up to join her, forming a human wall that weathered the withering fire as one would weather a thunderstorm, turning their armoured pauldrons to catch the rounds. After a few moments brief firing, the sisters began to advance, driving their enemies back with every menacing step. The Interrogator followed thereafter, joined by Amelia and the stormtroopers. 

Systematically, these acolytes shouldered open the long rows of doors that ran on either side of the corridor, before firing in and killing whatever unfortunate souls sought refuse there. Amelia found herself caught up in the thrill of battle and, together with Al-Said, chose her own door to clear. The stormtrooper gave the door a titanic blow with his shoulder, bursting the lock from the frame. As the door swung open, the stormtrooper followed its path with his rifle, bathing the room in a bloody red light. Amelia followed, her pistol raised, and caught a heretic in the shoulder. The room was filled with huddled slaves, dressed in some combination of medical robes and tribal garb, of whom very few were armed. Still, they practically threw themselves onto their enemies’ barrels in a suicidal last offensive. Almost every room the acolytes entered was filled with the same.

This resistance, as lowly as it was, slowed their advance to a snail’s pace as it caused the acolytes to pause and clear every room, lest their foes outflank them. The constant fire drained their ammunition, but a steady stream of stormtroopers joined them from the central chamber, supplanting precious bolt rounds with their seemingly endless lasbolts. Filburn led the vanguard, and Amelia found herself directing these reinforcements. The battle through the facility had cost the stormtroopers much of their senior leadership, and she found the scattered survivors of a myriad of platoons eager for some form of leadership. They were professionals, and capable of great initiative, but they looked upon the senior acolytes, Amelia included, with a reverence born not from religious fervour, but a deeply felt respect. This unrequited love, without hidden ambition or overzealousness, humbled Amelia.

The sounds of distant battle emanated through the cavernous halls, distinct from their own echoes. The enemy had clearly met the Inquisiton team assigned to this spoke of the wheel, and Amelia mused that they must be trying to hijack the Hellbore to make their escape. The acolytes redoubled their efforts, with Filburn now leading the charge with his Inferno pistol. They sprinted past charred corpses and through shards of shattered flesh and bone, a mad rush without fear of death or defeat, so that they might catch the enemy before it was too late. Opposition, such as remained, was dealt with mercilessly.

Throughout it all, Corporal Al’Said hung behind Amelia’s shoulder like a guardian angel. His wordless, stoic, presence was a constant companion, and the barrel of his hellgun, glowing red with heat, was a watchful protector. Together, the pair carved their way through innumerable chambers, Amelia lashing out with her sword, her laspistol now chargeless, whilst surrounded by a halo of read light as Al’Said put pinpoint las shots over her shoulder, putting his height to full advantage. When the corridors became twisted by debris, the aftershocks of the hellbore’s entry, he kept his glowing eyes fixed on every nook and cranny, quick to direct massed vollies of fire towards even the slightest movement.

Their adversaries path became clearer to see, massive footprints in the dust or paths cleared through rubble with superhuman strength offering tell-tale signs of their passing, and soon the Acolytes emerged into an expansive chamber at the far end of the spoke, with the shattered remains of a great elevator shaft above their head and a second tunnel the walls of which still glowed with the heat of the plasma drill that had carved them. Filburn sprinted to the end of the tunnel and offered a single curse as he caught sight of a titanic drill, carving a path away from them. Instantly Amelia reached out with her mind, only to feel a cluster of horrific souls slowly slipping out of her range. Desperately, she cast out her thoughts but the enemy were simply to far. Again and again she hurled herself against the boundaries of her own mind in an irrational attempt to catch the fleeing machine.

Qaboos Al’Said looked upon the empty chamber with despair, and his hellgun began to feel heavy in his arms. He was struck by a terrible sense of failure, and he knew that every stormtrooper shared his feelings. It was as he was lost in thought that he saw Agent Lafayette collapse like a puppet with her strings cut. Instantly all other thoughts fell from his mind and he rushed to her side, joined mere moments later by the unfamiliar Interrogator Filburn. Al’Said pressed his hand against her chest to try and feel her breathing, his bulky gloves too thick to detect a pulse, while the Interrogator pressed his fingers against the nape of her neck.

‘Her pulse is there, but it’s weak.’ He spoke in a matter of fact voice, apparently devoid of concern.

‘Breathing’s the same my lord.’ Al’Said replied, grateful for the distortive effect of his helmet.

‘What happened to her, has this happened before?’

‘I don’t know my lord.’

The so-called ‘Daughter of the Emperor’ refused to scream. Her attempt at resistance amused Kandor Mox, it was the defiance of a fly, and he simply pressed his hand even further against her armoured chest. Mox was a firm believer that you had to take the small pleasures whenever you can, that this is what separates men from animals, but he wasn’t particularly interested in the woman herself. It was her armour that intigued him, and he was engrossed in the sensation of the metal plates bending and snapping, whilst he listened to the whine of the servomotors like a masterful concerto. The armour given to these women was a poor imitation of Astartes plate, inferior in every way, but Mox was enamoured by the subtle differences in the machine’s construction. As he put pressure on the chest, the symphony rose as the strange servomotors, much lighter and more sonorous than he was used to, whined in protest before snapping through the ribcage of the armour’s occupant.

Hadar, that waste of resources, might think of Mox as little more than an illiterate grunt, but he fancied himself as somewhat of an artificer, taking pleasure in the simple joy of machines and longing to earn an apprenticeship to one of the Legion’s Warpsmiths. There he might create his own machines, wonderous creations that would carry his legacy across the stars. Perhaps he would even modify this lighter form of power armour for use amongst the cults. Perhaps not, he remarked to himself as he withdrew a bloody gauntlet from the Sister’s chest and let her corpse slide to the floor. With cultists it was usually better to go for quantity over quality. That was Hadar’s failing, and now he stared down the length of the Hellbore’s crew compartment, over Imperial corpses and the few meagre survivors of his own forces, to where that incompetent apothecary was conversing with a gaggle of human ‘researchers’. 

No human can become a Demon Prince, and you certainly can’t create one by trial and error. The resources poured into this vanity project could have served the Legion on a hundred different worlds, instead they had cast it all into a pit on this backwater world. Anger flared in his mind and his hand was drawn to the bolter mag-locked to his armour, but duty stayed his hand. That was what separated the Word Bearers from the rest of the Legions, they were still a united front, and sometimes they must surrender personal advancement for the sake of the Legion. Hadar’s own ambition had got them into this mess, and now Mox was the last Word Bearer left alive on this world, his only hope of escape this damn fool plan to wait out the Inquisition.

A shape moved throughout the bedrock of Nova Iberia without any regard for the mass of stone that lay in its path. Indeed, this shape was incapable of seeing the stone for it had no eyes. It was a formless thing that, had anyone the capacity to see it, seemed to spark with faint traces of golden light. This formless thing moved at incomparable speeds towards a faint, distant, glow. It’s prey, for there was something distinctly predatory about this light, was a small cluster of much dimmer lights whose aura, for want of a better word, was flecked with purple flames. It took no time at all for this thing to catch up with its target, and soon it flew outside their metal prison, unseen, unheard and utterly undetected. Within this metal shell were perhaps some hundred targets, of which two were notably formidable and were seemingly caged by arcane haloes of their own. 

Below the feet of these demigods was a sea of wretched figures who may as well have not existed for all the attention the two demigods paid them. Their minds were shielded by devotion, true, but the rest of there thought were so unlike the cold calculation and ambition of their leaders. Fear dominated their minds, a hundred fearful souls struck by an uncertain future, and wracked by deep hidden guilt. It was easy for the spectre to sift through the minds of these people, reading memories and identities as one might peruse a stall. The air stank of their desperation, and it would be a simple matter to let their minds withdraw within themselves, as they so dearly wished, and take over. But the spectre instead chose to bide its time, sifting through the minds and seeing through their eyes until it found what it wanted. 

In time, the Spectre saw what it wanted not, as she had though, amongst the wretched minds but within the noble mind of the demigods. The first’s mind was like a fortress, utterly disinterested in the world around it, but the other’s thoughts were filled with hatred for its brother. Cautiously, as if caressing a vicious beast, the spectre grew that sensation of hatred until it created a chink in the otherwise impenetrable mind, allowing the spectre to slink inwards.

Mox fumed to himself. Every time he cast his eyes towards Hadar, he felt bile rising in his throat. That monster had ruined everything, his chances, his opportunities, even his brothers were now dead because of him. His armoured gauntlets began to creak as he clenched his fist, and his hand began to drift towards the bolter mag-locked to his thigh. He dismissed the violent urge, but only for a moment and soon his hand leapt up of its own accord, bolter raised, and he unleashed a withering fire into the other Apothecary. 

Power armour was robust, and the withering fire proved unable to pierce Hadar’s heavy plate. His armour dented under the force of fire, and he was forced off his feet by the concentrated burst. Within seconds, the magazine had expired and Mox moved without thinking to bring up a second, letting the empty fall to the floor as he racked back the slide. He fired another magazine at the prone figure but rage had tarnished his aim, and many of his shells flew past the apothecary and into the great mass of gears and engines that powered the drill. Sparks flew, small at first before being carried throughout the drill in some sick parody of fireworks. The engine began to creak until, with a cascade of screeching sound, the gears and engines disintegrated into a field of flying metal. The lowly cultists were bisected by flying cogs that ricocheted throughout the enclosed space while Hadar was caught by a hail of superheated metal that finally cut through his armour. A microsecond later, Mox and the rest of the drill went up as the plasma tanks ignited. Before he died, he felt a small presence leave his mind.

The spectre lashed out with growing desperation now, as it attempted to return to its mortal shell. It flew through mile upon mile of featureless void until a cluster of souls caught its eye. As it drew closer, it began to feel the pull of an empty void that seemed to call to it, and the spectre elegantly swam its way through the sea of souls before settling back into its body.

Amelia opened her eyes warily, before shrinking back under the light of the sun. She tried to raise her arm to shield her eyes, only to find it strapped down by a thick leather cord. By her side walked a Sister of the Orders Hospitaller, and it didn’t take long for her to realise she was strapped to a gurney. The small movement of her arm did not go unnoticed, and her eyelids were soon pried open by the sisters gentle, but implacable, hand. Amelia desperately tried to look anywhere except at the burning ball of gas, and her response apparently satisfied the Sister, who shouted off to some unseen presence. Within minutes, and after the sun had been mercifully covered by a puffy white cloud, the face of Interrogator Filburn entered her view, his face noticeably lacking its characteristic smile.

‘What happened to you?’ He spoke, his voice toneless and professional.

‘The marines are dead.’ Amelia began, her words rewarded by a look of shocked disbelief on the Interrogators face, ‘I was able to separate my soul from my body and project my consciousness towards them. I possessed one of their cultists and sabotaged the drill. They all burned up underground.’

‘You can do that?’ Filburn’s voice was full of honest bemusement, and Amelia had to stifle a grin at the thought of flustering an Inquisitorial agent.

‘I’ve never been able to before, but the best telepaths are rumoured to perform feats of astral projection. Inquisitor Ravenor’s legendary for it, he can possess people from orbit.’

Filburn’s bemusement switched into his characteristically wolfish grin and he began to laugh, heartily and earnestly. His amusement was hopelessly contagious, and soon Amelia found herself joining him in their almost manic laughter.

‘I need to tell the Inquisitor,’ Filburn spoke once his mirth had somewhat subsided, ‘we’ve got the Silent Observer overhead performing deep scans for subsurface movement.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re heading back to the ship, astral projection or whatever you still need to rest. It’s over, Amelia. This is victory, savour it.’

A single, winged shape took off from the plains of Nova Iberia. Its wings had been painted to resemble the wings of an eagle, and it bore a stylised beak on either side of its nose. The underside of its wings bristled with underslung rocket pods, and a heavy bolter jutted out of each of its open doors. As it flew higher and higher, the gunners withdrew and the heavy doors were closed. The aircraft left the atmosphere, its pulse-jet engines disabling their turbines and sending short bursts of fuel to propel it inexorably towards a dark shape that loomed over the planet.

Inside this metal beast, a young woman lay on a hospital gurney. She wore a tattered stormcoat that had been held open to expose an ornate breastplate upon which a double headed eagle had been wrought in gold. Her weapons lay against the walls of the gunship, an empty laspistol, a long sword of simple design held in an unadorned scabbard and a long staff of rich wood and delicate circuitry that was topped by an all-seeing eye. Her skin was pale and her hair, what little remained, was swept back from the top of her head into a long braid. The sides of her head were shaven, only metal plates holding an assortment of wires that stretched towards her collar in some mockery of hair. Her eyes, were they open, would be a piercing green. On her lips was a smile.


	25. The Silent Observer

_Three Years Later ___

__Within the cavernous depths of the Silent Observer, the adepts and acolytes of the Inquisition go about their routines with monotonous regularity. In dozens of long chambers, lined with sparse cells, the lower acolytes exist in a constant state of uncertain readiness, occupying their days with training and spending their evenings relaxing and mingling with their peers. It is no monastic state, but it is close, and a keen sense of companionship exists between the various acolytes in service to the Inquisitor. There are exceptions, naturally, the most notable of which is the quiet space in the vessel’s forecastle that housed a small convent of the Order of the Bloody Rose, whose sisters lived in voluntary seclusion occupied by study, drill and prayer. The crew of the vessel are also isolated, though that is more the product of the cultural gap that has existed between sailors and landsmen ever since the first ship was carved from ancient oak._ _

__Even these groups seek comfort in familiar company. But there is a group within the ship who live a largely isolated existence, matched only by the Inquisitor, the ship’s Captain and its navigator. The senior acolytes of the Inquisition dwell in small chambers and apartments that, while in the same geographic area of the ship, may as well have been worlds apart. Though they may meet and mingle in the wardroom, their quarters are like their own private kingdoms and none would think of violating the sanctity of that space. It is one of life’s tragedies that power isolates those who wield it, and when one belongs to an order that dwells in subterfuge and betrayal then it is only natural that its leadership should drift apart._ _

__Within this section of the ship there was a single set of rooms, no different from any of its counterparts, comprised of a large bedchamber and washroom that was separated from the ship’s wardroom by a spacious antechamber that served as both an office and a lounge, as circumstances required. The walls were a grey combination of steel and stone, much the same as the rest of the ship, but swathes of red cloth hung from the walls gave the place a somewhat lighter atmosphere, and in time the walls would be covered with the trappings of life: ornamental weapons, fine art or badges of office. The bedroom was largely built around an ornate bed that supported four wooden posts, done up with yet more red cloth. The tranquil sleep of this bed’s occupant was disturbed with the shrill screeching of a desktop chronometer._ _

__Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette practically staggered into the washroom, still drowsy from sleep. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, as she washed herself under a simple stream of water. Her eyes had sunken somewhat over the years, but they no longer declined at quite the same speed as they had when she first awakened to her powers. Her skin had lost its corpselike pallor now that she had spent some time under natural, or near-natural, light and her frail figure had filled out with muscle acquired through daily exercise routines with some of the stormtroopers physical training sergeants. She had hardened over the past few years, and her face was showing the early onset of age, wrinkles that didn’t belong on the face of someone in her late twenties. Soon she would need to begin a course of Rejuvenat treatment in order to maintain the appearance of youth that is so valued amongst the upper echelons of Imperial society, or at least with the women of Imperial high society._ _

__Once she emerged from her ablutions, refreshed and partly revitalised, she saw that attire had already been laid out for her by one of the ship’s stewards. Other women, when placed suddenly in a position of great authority, may lament the loss of privacy that comes with servants, stewards and other hangers on but Amelia had abandoned notions of privacy within her first week in the Scholasta Psykana, and her experiences since had only reinforced the value of a competent set of staff. In truth, she imagined that she was rather low-maintenance when compared to the other senior acolytes; she eschewed robes or layered finery, and dressed instead in a simple bodyglove of black material, unadorned with badges of office. Those would come later._ _

__Within her antechamber were two things of note. The first was the silent figure of the mutant Luka, now in her mid-teens, who stood vigil beside the entrance, dressed in unadorned red fatigues belted with a black leather band from which a pair of long knives hung. The girl’s clothes were simply requisitioned Stormtrooper fatigues, easy to replace when her spines tore the fabric into rags after only a day or two. The girl had served as Amelia’s handmaiden for the past three years, ever since she acquired the child in the underhive of Nova Iberia, and she had adopted a determined stance towards her new life in the Inquisition, although Amelia was well aware she was the subject of mockery and abuse. When Amelia was otherwise occupied, Luka would spend her days training with the Inquisitor’s other mutants, or those undesirables he had recruited from criminal syndicates. In time she would become a feared enforcer, capable of rising like a poison through the ranks of any criminal syndicate or warlord’s retinue._ _

__Amelia’s second concern was breakfast, placed by unseen hands on her desk, and she ate in blessed silence. The senior acolytes did have a communal wardroom that occasionally hosted ceremonial dinners in celebration of some religious festival, or simply out of a sense of social obligation, but most of the acolytes preferred to eat alone, either reclusive by nature or reluctant to break bread with a rival for the Inquisitor’s favour. Whatever the reason, Amelia simply enjoyed the solitude. The food was far richer than the fare served out in the communal messes, and she enjoyed, for the first time in her life, being able to decide what she wanted to eat that morning. Only a strict dedication to her fitness kept her from overindulgence._ _

__Once she had eaten her fill, Amelia rose and typed a short code onto the tall doors of her quarters’ small armoury. Luka stepped up to her side without a word; this was a ritual both had gone through many times before. Inside the armoury-closet was a set of finely polished carapace armour, that Amelia began removing from its mounts. With Luka’s help, she buckled the full-body suit of carapace armour over the purpose-designed bodyglove until her entire body, from her shoulders to her feet, was covered in glossy black plates. The armour itself was lighter than that worn by the stormtroopers, and more closely hugged her form, but the materials used in its construction were far superior, compensating for the difference in weight. Within the solid black surface, faint cords of gold embroidery traced stencilled designs. This minor ornamentation, forming a double-headed eagle across her chest and the sigil of the Inquisition on her right arm, was the armour’s only accessory._ _

__Luka stepped back, this final ritual was too pious for any risk of mutant corruption, as Amelia lifted a small machine from the back of the closet. This was her psychic hood, heavily modified from the bulky collar it had once been. The tangled wires had been replaced with a dozen thick tubes that ran from one curved piece to another. The first was shaped to the back of her skull, and attached itself to her permanent implants while the other rested on her collarbones, resembling a parody of a high-backed collar and fitting seamlessly into her carapace armour. Her long stormcoat had gone the way of the jumble of wires, and Amelia slung a rich green jacket over one shoulder, in the manner of an aristocratic soldier, before fixing it with a delicate chain around her neck. She no longer felt the need to hide herself between buttoned up coats and in the anonymity of her station._ _

__

__The chapel was empty. One of the more minor chapels on the Silent Observer, it was a good place for quiet reflection. Amelia knelt in the centre of the knave, facing the altar and the white marble Saint who stood behind it. She silently recited the catechisms of faith, moving with religious deference through the calming rites she had been instructed. These rites were more than mere rote learning, but something she held dear and trusted to see her through the darkest times. In the corner of her eye, she could see the red-robed priest standing beside the font, watching her as she prayed. She no longer actively picked up on the emotions of bystanders, unless she wanted to, but it was clear that the priest had recognised her psychic hood and resented her presence in his chapel. Unfortunately for him, the priest was of no consequence and as such was powerless to stop her. He was ultimately unimportant, merely a distraction from her sites._ _

__‘It’s time, my lady.’_ _

__Amelia finished the verse before rising, offering the sign of the Aquila to the altar, and turning to face her adjutant. Helena wore a deep red bodyglove, richer and more vibrant than the Stormtrooper’s fatigues, that had been tailored to accentuate her beauty. Her head, and much of her décolletage, was uncovered and her blond hair had been carefully styled into a kind of ordered chaos. Her left arm, entirely exposed, gleamed with polished metal and large brass plates, which gave the impression of a normal arm while not hiding the mechanical workings. The brass had been engraved with scenes of hive cities, and the whole machine moved with all the fluidity of a real arm. Helena was no longer the same timid youth Amelia had been, nor had she forged herself the same martial air. She was larger than life, and determined to enjoy her youth before it faded away. When she worked it was with deliberate elegance paired with the familiar efficiency of her former order._ _

__

__As she led her Adjutant out of the Chapel, she heard the crashing of metal as a crackling power sword was raised in salute. Captain Al’Said stood vigil outside the chapel door, the pommel of his sword raised to his head in a formal salute which Amelia returned with a practiced efficiency. His head was bare, exposing his coffee-coloured skin and neatly trimmed hair and beard, and his features were stoic. His meteoric rise in rank was little more than a recognition of his inherent talent for leadership, a task he had proved repeatedly in false battles and boarding actions. He no longer wore the standard carapace armour of the Inquisitor’s stormtroopers, instead dressing in a suit of layered metal plates partially assisted by hidden servomotors. His professional exterior had not wholly survived the years, however, and it did not take a psyker to match Helena’s perfume with the strangely floral scent coming off the martial man. With their salutes exchanged, the Captain took up a position on Helena’s right as her Lexographer moved to her left._ _

__They were joined shortly thereafter by Luka, barred from getting anywhere near the religious spaces, and by the rest of her retinue. Four Arbites officers stepped out before her, men and women who had followed her since the ambush in the Precinct Fortress they served as heralds, clearing a path through menials and deckhands in the same way they might batter apart a riotous crowd. Two squads of stormtroopers fanned out on either side of her, a gift from Marshall Taimur. She had earned somewhat of a reputation throughout the Stormtroopers and, though many of the other acoles still resented her, she could always find support in their honest company, for they saw her as a fellow soldier. Behind all of them moved a disorderly gaggle of acolytes and hangers on that were more Helena’s acolytes than hers. Together they made for an intimidating column as they moved through the corridors of the Silent Observer._ _

__

__The last time Amelia had stood in the Inquisitor’s Grand Saloon it had teemed with people, and she had been jostled about until she could barely see the Inquisitor over the shoulders of greater men, both physically and in social status. Now the chamber was much emptier, and seemed all the larger for it. The Inquisitor’s plinth, which had been a mere necessity, now served to elevate him over his supplicant, and his dozens of retainers subtly overshadowed her own followers. The Inquisitor stood before her, resplendent in his pristine power armour and tattered robes, and she marched up the centre of the chamber before dropping to her knees fifteen paces from him. Behind him still hung the immense Inquisitorial sigil, and their business was conducted under the sight of open space displayed on hidden screens that lined the ceiling._ _

__‘You summoned me, my lord.’_ _

__There was no question here. Every element of this meeting had been ordained by rigorous protocol and ancient convention so long-standing as to have its own legal weight. It was not as stuffily formal as the protocols of the nobility, but there was a distinct undercurrent of menace to every formal Inquisition action._ _

__‘Supplicant, you have come here to receive judgement.’_ _

__The Inquisitor’s voice was magnified by hidden voxcasters that carried his voice throughout the chamber and his trio of servo skulls flittered about the room repeating his words in a whispering facsimile of an echo._ _

__‘Is the supplicant free from a corrupt background, that may influence her decisions or speak to weakness of character?’_ _

__The wizened figure of Autosavant Wrexley shuffled forward a half step before speaking._ _

__‘The supplicant was a ward of the state, and her prior ancestors have shown no sign of heresy, criminality or un-imperial behaviour.’_ _

__His duty done; the old man stepped back into the ranks of acolytes. This was not a trial, merely a presentation of evidence gained over months of research. On some distant world, utterly beyond her reach, the Administratum had torn through their genealogical records and conducted interviews with her living family to determine any history of criminality. Amelia wondered what her parents, who must surely have given her up for dead, would have thought when subjected to this background check. She wondered if they were even still alive._ _

__‘Is the supplicant free of cursed mutations, that may affect her capacity for rational thought or otherwise corrupt her?’_ _

__Magos Zeletrass towered over the other acolytes, though she still seemed small next to the Inquisitor’s intimidating presence. She skittered forward on mechanical libs mercifully concealed beneath her robes._ _

__‘Genetic rites and purification tests have shown no adverse mutations, barring the supplicant’s pre-existing mutations that have already been vetted and sanctioned by the Telepathica-Biologis Enclave on Terra. The supplicant’s pre-existing mutation has grown considerably in strength, but it is the verdict of the Mechanicum that this growth is within normal parameters.’_ _

__Amelia breathed a silent sigh of relief as the mechanical voice of the Magos stopped talking, and she skittered back into the ranks of acolytes. Her abilities had grown, as psychic abilities have been known to grow over time, and she had wondered if they would damn her for it._ _

__‘Is the supplicant of stalwart character, ready to face any hardship in service of the Imperium of Man?’_ _

__Interrogator Filburn stepped forward, his omnipresent grin replaced by a blank expression. Amelia still remembered the knights of horrible torture the Interrogator had put her through, a chance for her to prove her loyalty beyond mere personal relationships. She bore the Interrogator no ill will; he had only been chosen to do the task because, in those heady days after Nova Iberia, the two had found comfort in each other’s arms. That budding relationship had broken under the knife, but she still respected him._ _

__‘The supplicant’s will was tested, and she emerged unscathed. She has proven her will both under interrogation and in open warfare.’_ _

__He stepped back, and Amelia though she saw the slightest hint of remorse in his eyes. It would be unsurprising, but she may have been reflecting her own feelings onto him._ _

__‘By the will of this court and by the authority vested on me by the Imperium of Man, I, Inquisitor Ishmael Heydrax, name you Interrogator Amelia Lafayette. May your actions, from this day forward, be guided by the example of our founder, Malcador the Hero, and remember always the teachings of the God-Emperor of Mankind, for you act in his name.’_ _

__‘Rise, Interrogator!_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, then I would like to thank you. I have learned so much over the past eighty-thousand words, both about how to write and what to write about. This project has been an absolute pleasure to complete, and I am happy to declare the story over. That's something I had clear from the start, this story must have an ending. This is an ending without sequel bait or meaningless cliffhangers. It is simply the culmination of Amelia's personal journey from a frightened child to a hardened agent of the Inquisition. In a way, this was never even about Nova Iberia. 
> 
> Fun fact, this was originally going to be a mass effect crossover and Nova Iberia was simply going to be an excuse for warp shenanigans that would send Amelia into another universe. Fortunately for all involved, that idea was scrapped about a thousand words in because I realised that what I wanted was a story where someone grows as a person, and there was no reason for that growth to only occur through bioware-style shipboard dialogue. The focus of this therefore shifted to how a person would grow in the Imperium, a society whose scant familiarity to our own only serves to make it more alien. When I created each character, I tried to give them a sense of morality that is a product of the Imperium, rather than making them an utter bastard or complete paragon.
> 
> I don't know if I'll continue Amelia's saga, though I did begin to grasp a few new ideas on a long drive, and so I hope that this story is capable of standing on its own two feet. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you thought about my little foray into the Grim Darkness of the Far Future.
> 
> -Redcoat


End file.
